Kenneth Branagh
Dead Again

THE REVIEW

With this review, I inaugurate a new category: "Why Watch This Film".

Dead Again—currently available on Netflix—is an interesting archaeological find from 1991 and is a film for everyone.

• Film buffs might enjoy hunting down the countless references scattered by Kenneth Branagh, mostly Hitchcockian but not only.
• Non-cinephiles, on the other hand, might enjoy an equally stimulating pastime: compiling a list of plot holes, an activity that might last even longer than the film itself.

In the early 1990s, Kenneth Branagh was the rising star of British cinema. Riding the success of his film adaptation of Shakespeare's Henry V, he decided it was time to conquer Hollywood. Italian audiences were probably less caught up in the collective enthusiasm that surrounded Branagh and his then-wife Emma Thompson, but in the United Kingdom, Kenneth was truly the man of the moment: the new Laurence Olivier, according to some. Laurence Olivier was still alive—barely—but such details shouldn't get in the way of building a legend.

As happens with musicians and rock bands, every Anglo-Saxon performer knows that the true certificate of stardom is issued overseas. Branagh was no exception and, after Shakespeare, decided to try his hand at a thriller set in Los Angeles. Looking back, this choice seems at the very least reckless.

Dead Again, despite its sinister title, is more of a confused kitten than a lion. It's a pseudo-neo-noir that tries to be all at once a mystery, a love story beyond death, a gothic tale, a film about reincarnation, a Hitchcockian exercise in style, and a reflection on destiny. Putting together all these elements would have required balance and precision; Branagh instead prefers to toss everything into the blender and hope for the best.

The beginning is promising. It's 1948. Through newspaper headlines, we learn of the murder of young pianist Margaret Strauss and the subsequent conviction of her husband Roman, a celebrated orchestra conductor accused of the crime. The atmosphere is elegant, sophisticated, authentically noir. For a few minutes, you even get the impression you're watching a great film.

Then the scene shifts to contemporary Los Angeles and the house of cards slowly begins to wobble. During a stormy night, a young woman identical to Margaret wakes up in a convent, mute and terrified. Nuns, thunder, nightmares, and dark hallways: it feels more like the beginning of third-rate horror than a noir.

The girl is entrusted to Mike Church, a private investigator played by Branagh himself. Mike should be sharp, witty, and charming, but ends up looking like a man who has forgotten which character he's supposed to be playing. Hard-boiled? Romantic comedy? Jaded detective? Melancholy young widower? Branagh tries out all the options available without ever really choosing one.

Within a few days, Mike takes the mysterious stranger to his home, places ads in the newspaper, falls in love with her, and stumbles upon a hypnotist convinced he can recover memories buried in past lives. At this point, the film stops evolving and starts spinning in circles.

This is followed by flashbacks, hypnosis sessions, false suspects, improbable coincidences, and an industrial quantity of film references. Branagh seems to have raided Hitchcock’s video store with the enthusiasm of a compulsive collector. There are callbacks to Vertigo, Dial M for Murder, and Spellbound, while some scenes seem lifted directly from Brian De Palma, who at least always had the good taste to openly admit his steals. But the problem isn’t even the plagiarism, rather the belief that quoting equals being a brilliant filmmaker. Dead Again ends up resembling a student who shows his homework copied from the best in the class and still expects top marks.

Watching it again today, Dead Again is unmistakably the film of a young, talented artist completely drunk on his own talent. Branagh directs as if every shot deserves applause and writes as if every plot twist were a metaphysical revelation. Unfortunately, once the film is over, what remains is not a sense of mystery but a long list of unresolved questions. Hitchcock built labyrinths from which there was always an exit. Branagh builds a labyrinth, loses the map, and then blames karma.

It’s no coincidence that Branagh’s best work remains also his most humble: the one in which he aimed to serve Shakespeare rather than compete with him.