Elsinore

FESTIVAL REVIEW

Few things are as certain in Hollywood as the yearly manufactured award player centered on a notable real-life person. Whether it is about a prime minister, a queen, a maestro, or a rock-band lead singer, you can be sure the person’s biggest accomplishments will feel secondary to the award-hungry actor portraying them, to the point that the crying or yelling is what sticks in your mind more than the real person and what made them inspiring.

In 2026, that film is Elsinore, a by-the-book biopic about Ian Charleson, a renowned actor who, in 1989, was sick with AIDS but fought to perform his dream role of Hamlet at the National Theatre in his last few months, replacing Daniel Day-Lewis, who had walked off the stage mid-performance. Known at the time for starring in Chariots of Fire, a film he despised and thought was defined by its annoying theme song (he wasn’t wrong about that), he was passionate about the art of “true” acting. According to the film, he kept his sexuality a secret because he believed it would distance the audience from the role he was playing; protecting his future career was not the reason. Add to that his own complaint that movies would often chop out his work, and it is safe to say he would not be a fan of this film.

Directed by Simon Stone, who is better known for his theatre work, Elsinore is a safe and technically accomplished film. It is strongest in its first 30 minutes, where it efficiently recreates the 80s and the paranoia surrounding AIDS. It captures both the fear of the disease and the empathy of the people around Ian, from his casting director, Patsy Pollock (Billie Piper), to the other men living with his illness. The most touching moment comes when Ian, unflinching, convinces the director of Hamlet to cast him despite his condition, and we glimpse his desperation and understand how much this means to him. Not being cast would be worse than what waits for him.

Andrew Scott is at his best in these scenes; despite the distracting blue lenses, his eyes capture Ian’s spark and thrill of performing. Scott, who gave his best performance in the far subtler and more impactful All of Us Strangers, knows the role’s award potential and often plays for the camera, as if he knows which scenes will become the Oscar clip and pushes them a little harder. He is a great actor and makes those scenes work, but he is far better in the more subdued moments, such as the way he curves his posture a little more as Ian’s condition worsens. He also shares great rapport with Olivia Colman’s equally committed doctor, or with Joe Locke’s Nicholas, a younger patient at Ian’s clinic who idolizes him.

The film, unfortunately, doesn’t trust him enough to carry it through, surrounding his performance with an overwrought score that screams inspiration and an excessive number of montages. In one scene, Ian brings joy to the clinic by motivating the other patients to perform, à la Sing Sing, but instead of letting us see the impact of that moment, the film turns it into a montage that jumps from his idea straight to their performance, skipping the whole emotional build-up. The last half hour is especially tough to watch, as the film presents inspirational moments one after the other, begging you for a tear.

The worst, however, is how the film handles the Hamlet scenes, given Stone’s background, which included directing the play himself. Instead of giving us full passages played out, like Hamnet did last year, parts of the play are presented in a “best moments” montage that robs them of their impact. As a result, we never grasp how demanding the role is for Ian, and in turn, the size of his sacrifice. We are constantly told about it, but never truly feel.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Earlier this year, I saw Ira Sachs’s The Man I Love at the Cannes Film Festival. That film captured the same time period and the same struggle, and it was also centered on a showy performance. Yet it let us observe that moment, sitting at the table with those people, watching them interact and simply live. As a result, it reaches a conclusion so powerful that I couldn’t shake it months later. Elsinore is the opposite. It is a film more in love with a golden statue than with the time period, with Hamlet, or with Ian Charleson. It might eventually be nominated, but its impact will fade much faster than Charleson’s, a man whose passion was the incarnation of a character, with no interest in artificial manipulation.

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