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Coriolanus is not an easy movie to watch. Ralph Fiennes’ directorial debut, an adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s lesser-known tragedies, is no popcorn action flick. The plot is complex, the war scenes are more brutal than exhilarating, the dialogue is heavy, and the characters defy empathy. But for those who are willing to endure the onslaught of Coriolanus, the rewards are great.  

Caius Martius Coriolanus (Fiennes) is no hero. Above all, he hates his mortal enemy Aufidius and his own people. He enacts martial law to stave off a food shortage, attacking the neighbouring Volscians, inspired more by revenge than the defence of Rome. When he returns and vies for political office, the Romans reject and banish him.  

Coriolanus is incompatible with his society. All he knows is war. So he does the unthinkable—he teams up with Aufidius and sets his sights on sacking Rome. 

Fiennes enraptures as Caius Martius Coriolanus. He handles scenes of pure rage, chilling egomania, and raw vulnerability with explosive passion. His mother Volumnia (Vanessa Redgrave) is a powerful and obstinate woman who might just be responsible for all of Coriolanus’ problems. She is as ambitious as Lady Macbeth, craves danger, and has an odd, reverse-Oedipal fascination with her son. Volumnia is unique and complex, and Redgrave does her character justice. Coriolanus’ wife Virgilia is naive but steadfast like Penelope, and ever-radiant Jessica Chastain plays her with pathos and charm. Gerard Butler as Aufidius is the least adept at making the iambic pentameter his own, but still brings depth to what could have been a mere stock villain. 

Coriolanus makes storytelling decisions that would be, by any other standard, wrong. Jarring cuts take us from the height of action to mundane suburban scenes. The music is excessively loud during fight scenes, racing like an adrenaline-fuelled heartbeat, and deathly quiet during the most dynamic moments. The staging is ugly—teeming with graffiti, battered buildings, and grime. But the risks pay off. What should be wrong is right. The soundtrack, editing, and art direction shock us out of any semblance of comfort, exposing the meanest sides of war, where children and the elderly are casualties. Wisely, Coriolanus follows Alfred Hitchcock’s advice: to shoot murder scenes like love scenes and love scenes like murder scenes. The episodes between Coriolanus and Virgilia are austere and distanced. In utter contrast, the Roman general and his mortal enemy scratch and claw at each other in suffocating embraces. 

The themes of the original play are relevant in the film’s 21st century setting. Coriolanus’ elitism and conflict with his people are reminiscent of the Occupy movement—but our so-called protagonist is on the side of the dreaded one per cent. He refuses to pander to those he sees as below him, and is exiled for it. The gritty fight scenes evoke recent episodes of police brutality and a kill first, ask questions later policy. Above all, the film reminds us how fine the line is between peace and chaos. 

Coriolanus demands a great deal from its audience, and it presents an unsettling view of modern politics, creating a queasy sense of moral ambiguity. Cinema’s latest Shakespeare adaptation is a movie for people who are okay with unanswered questions. What happens to an uncompromising man when he moves out of a world of absolutes? The first time Coriolanus breaks his convictions he gets banished from his country. And the second time? You’ll have to watch to find out.