Edward De Vere, Earl of Oxford, is presented as the real author of Shakespeare's works. Edward's life is followed through flashbacks from a young child, through to the end of his life. He is portrayed as a child prodigy who writes and performs A Midsummer Night's Dream for a young Elizabeth I. A series of events sees his plays being performed by a frontman, Shakespeare.Written by
Roland Emmerich self-financed the entire movie. The past financial earnings of his previous movies allowed him the money and total control of this movie without studio interference. See more »
When Edward is talking to Southampton and Essex about 'bringing the mob' his right hand switches between resting on top of his cane and grasping the shaft when the shot changes from front to back. See more »
Politics? My play has nothing to do with politics. I-i-i-it's just a simple comedy.
Earl of Oxford:
It showed your betters as fools who'd go through life barely managing to get food from plate to mouth were it not for the cleverness of their servants. All art is political, Jonson, otherwise it would just be decoration. And all artists have something to say, otherwise they'd make shoes. And you are not a cobbler, are you Jonson.
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Apart from the production companies, the only opening credit is the movie's title, displayed on the marquee of the prologue's theater. See more »
With apologies to Shakespeare, the true talent, thus, my feeble attempt at (mostly) iambic pentameter:
Anonymous, a film of cheese and ham, Questions the legend of Shakespeare, William, Whose work it claims the sole property of, Edward DeVere's, Earl, and a class above, Theory and conjecture, Will's name to malign, A film not noble, literate, or refined, Its tale quite shallow, protesting too much, Spouting nonsense, drivel, dreck, and such.
A production with much to admire, Before all logic begins to expire, Sensationally, a work of fiction, Unconvincing in its own conviction, Visual spectacle, or farce, perhaps, Intelligence and wit well nigh elapse, Although I may seem to kvetch and complain, This film ultimately doth entertain.
The thespians display their skills and crafts, While unintentionally providing laughs, Over-emoting as they misbehave, The likes of Jacobi and Ladies Redgrave, Rhys Ifans well plays lover and writer, Were only Orloff's script a bit tighter, Rafe Spall's the bard as wretched sot, an eyeful, Poor Will should sue for slander and libel.
Disaster, thine mainstay of Emmerich, Part director, part showman, his prime niche, For depth and clarity, he will not delve, Note: Independence Day and 2012, Whilst not the disaster we've come to expect, The film has little to awe or respect, It plays fast with the facts, and offers nil, Except sets, that in some measure, fulfill.
With all its pomp and expensive wrappings, Lavish costumes doth not disguise its trappings, But thy foul temper and malaise spills forth, Yielding a vile film of lesser worth, A ill-conceived venture, shrill, and unkind, Outlandishly ornate and out of its mind, A stylish film, yet so misbegotten, One hopes Anonymous is soon well forgotten.
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