History has a cruel habit of rendering certain works of art simultaneously ahead of their time and hopelessly antiquated. Such is the unenviable fate of Camelot, Joshua Logan’s 1967 musical adaptation of the Arthurian legend. A lavish, star-studded endeavour, the film now exists as a curious relic: a grandiose Hollywood spectacle straining to reconcile the idealism of its source material with the cynicism of the late 1960s. Its tonal dissonance—part medieval romance, part modernist lament—mirrors the cultural upheavals of its era, yet its execution feels mired in the very conventions it seeks to transcend. Camelot is a film out of step with itself, a collision of ambition and misjudgement that encapsulates both the fading glory of Old Hollywood and the awkward birth pangs of a new cinematic age.
The film is an adaptation of the eponymous 1960 Broadway musical by composer Frederick Loewe and lyricist Alan Jay Lerner, itself loosely based on T.H. White’s The Once and Future King. White’s novels, which reimagined Arthurian mythology through a lens of psychological realism and political allegory, had already inspired Disney’s 1963 animated feature The Sword in the Stone—a charming but minor entry in the studio’s canon. Lerner and Loewe’s stage production, however, transformed White’s themes of disillusionment and the fragility of idealism into a soaring, if melancholic, theatrical experience. By 1967, the musical’s wistful meditation on lost utopias resonated with a America reeling from assassinations, wars and race riots. Yet Logan’s film, rather than sharpening this resonance, dilutes it, burying the material’s emotional core beneath garish production design and ill-advised casting choices.
The narrative unfolds as a flashback, with an ageing King Arthur (Richard Harris) preparing for battle against his former friend Lancelot (Franco Nero) and treacherous son Mordred (David Hemmings). As Arthur reminisces, the film retreats to his early reign: his politically arranged marriage to Guenevere (Vanessa Redgrave), the establishment of the Round Table’s chivalric codes, and the arrival of Lancelot, whose unwavering loyalty to Arthur is complicated by his illicit passion for the queen. The idyllic Camelot, a symbol of Arthur’s dream of justice and unity, unravels as gossip, jealousy, and Mordred’s Machiavellian scheming poison the court. The story’s tragedy lies in its depiction of idealism corroded by human frailty—a theme that, in theory, should resonate profoundly in any era. Yet the film’s treatment of these elements feels both rushed and ponderous, reducing Arthur’s philosophical musings to platitudes and reducing Guenevere and Lancelot’s romance to a series of stilted glances.
The 1960s began as a golden age for the Hollywood musical, with triumphs like West Side Story (1961) and My Fair Lady (1964) dominating box offices and award ceremonies. By 1967, however, the genre had become a victim of its own excess. Studios, clinging to outdated formulas, churned out bloated, overbudget productions that ignored shifting audience tastes. The rise of New Hollywood—with its gritty realism and anti-establishment ethos—rendered the Technicolor escapism of musicals obsolete. Camelot, with its inflated $13 million budget and three-hour runtime, epitomised this disconnect. Its failure marked the beginning of a catastrophic period for musicals, culminating in infamous flops like Star! (1968) and Hello, Dolly! (1969), which nearly bankrupted studios. Logan’s film thus stands as a harbinger of decline, a canary in the coal mine for an industry oblivious to its own irrelevance.
To label Camelot a outright flop would be hyperbolic—it grossed $31 million globally—but its performance fell far short of Warner Bros.’ expectations. Jack L. Warner, the studio’s last old-guard mogul, had envisioned the film as a crowning achievement, a successor to My Fair Lady’s success. Instead, it became a symbol of his detachment from contemporary cinema. The humiliation was compounded by the simultaneous rise of Bonnie and Clyde, a Warner film Warner had actively disparaged. The juxtaposition was stark: Camelot, a fossil of studio-system grandeur, overshadowed by a gritty, youth-driven masterpiece that heralded New Hollywood’s ascendancy. Warner’s resignation in 1967, following the film’s lukewarm reception, signalled the end of an era—one Camelot’s failure had laid bare.
The film’s most glaring flaw lies in its casting. Richard Burton, Julie Andrews, and Robert Goulet—the original Broadway trio—were replaced by actors ill-suited to their roles. Richard Harris, though a capable dramatic actor, delivers Arthur as a mannered, overmade-up caricature, his singing voice serviceable but lacking Burton’s gravitas. Vanessa Redgrave’s Guenevere, while visually striking, leans into a breathy, theatrical seductiveness that feels anachronistic. Her rendition of “The Lusty Month of May” injects a fleeting Swinging Sixties vivacity, but the performance ultimately rings hollow. Franco Nero, dubbed by Gene Merlino, struggles to convey Lancelot’s inner conflict, his physical presence undermined by vocal inconsistency. David Hemmings, as Mordred, arrives too late to leave an impact, his campy villainy clashing with the film’s otherwise solemn tone.
Lerner’s screenplay condenses the musical’s narrative into a disjointed series of vignettes, rushing through pivotal moments while labouring on inconsequential ones. The climactic Battle of Camlann is not rendered at all. Logan’s direction exacerbates these issues, favouring static, stagey compositions that highlight the film’s artificiality. The decision to shoot entirely on soundstages—a cost-cutting measure—robs Camelot of mythic grandeur, reducing it to a glittering diorama. The result is a film that feels both claustrophobic and interminable, its pacing as erratic as its tone.
In retrospect, Camelot’s failure to engage with contemporary parallels is its greatest missed opportunity. Thanks to Boomers’ nostalgia, the term “Camelot” had become shorthand for JFK’s abbreviated presidency—a comparison the film inadvertently invites. Yet Logan’s vision remains stubbornly apolitical, avoiding any substantive commentary on power, corruption, or the collapse of idealism. Released a decade later, amid the disillusionments of Vietnam and Watergate, the story’s themes might have resonated more deeply. Instead, it exists as a curiously inert artifact, its potential for relevance squandered in favour of empty spectacle.
Camelot is, by any measure, a monumental disappointment—a three-hour slog through misjudged performances, leaden pacing, and squandered potential. Yet it is not entirely without merit. Redgrave and Nero’s onscreen chemistry, however mismanaged here, foreshadowed one of cinema’s most enduring offscreen partnerships. The score, though poorly integrated, retains fragments of Loewe’s melodic brilliance. For completists and musical theatre aficionados, the film offers a cautionary tale of Hollywood hubris. For all others, it stands as a monument to a bygone era—a kingdom of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
RATING: 4/10 (+)
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