Don't let it be forgot
That once there was a spot
For one brief shining moment
That was known as Camelot.
It is not difficult to appreciate the nostalgia of the public—which included John Kennedy—for the place and the musical called Camelot. A golden blend of song and story, it celebrated the fabled, far-off landscape of the English soul, where it never rained till after sun down and where by royal decree summer lingered through September. By Broadway standards, no musical ever had a more regal lineage. Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, the creators of My Fair Lady, did book and lyrics, based on T. H. White's brilliant tetralogy The Once and Future King. Moss Hart directed; the stars were Julie Andrews, Richard Burton, Robert Goulet.
Unfortunately, there is nothing royal about Camelot's carious screen version. It has been brought crunchingly down to earth by the churlish touch of Director Joshua Logan. To be sure, the film is a re-creation of the triangled plot involving King Arthur (Richard Harris), Queen Guenevere (Vanessa Redgrave) and Lancelot (Franco Nero), the interloper-knight who gives his rivals at the Round Table their joust desserts, thereby arousing the lady's passions. The King ignores their affair until the appearance of his bastard son Mordred (David Hemmings), who sunders the kingdom with slander and rumor. A war between Arthur and Lancelot begins, Guenevere flees to a nunnery, and Camelot dissolves into legend.
Even on Broadway, Camelot never quite succeeded in capturing the wonderful, free imagination of White's original. The show suffered from a certain staginess—unconvincing battles, overweight choral numbers, anachronistic jokes. The movie, which should have opened up the drama, shuts it down instead. Logan makes every scene appear to be viewed from the wrong end of a telescope, minimizing the story and simplifying the actions. When Arthur sings about fishing, he awkwardly pantomimes the act of casting; when Guenevere chants the simple joys of maidenhood, she is forced to remain supine for 32 bars. Camelot's fantasy land is about as enchanted as a dolled-up back lot at Warner's. The picture's few supernatural elements—Arthur magically turned into a fish and a hawk—are offscreen occurrences, as if Camelot had abruptly run into budget trouble. Even the makeup seems to have been applied by an amateur; Harris' eye shadow is heavier than Redgrave's, and his white horse's is heavier still.
In a small but pivotal part, Hemmings is properly revolting as the evil princeling, and Harris invests his role with dignity and tragedy. But it is Vanessa Redgrave who emerges as the film's most telling virtue—a touching, tragic beauty whose elongated face and aristocratic grace are reminiscent of a medieval tapestry. Without her, Camelot would be disastrous. With her surprisingly true voice and regal talents, it has its brief, shining moments, though in the end Camelot is reduced to Camelittle. Arthur's final nostalgic song seems less a memorial for the dream castle that never was than for the picture that might have been.