This production is not without some virtues, such as the eerie realism with which it presents the primitive, brutal, and pious texture of life in medieval Scotland. The sheer quietness that pervades most of the film evokes the isolation at the heart of this cruel drama. Unfortunately, these virtues are eclipsed by the arrogant stupidity with which Welles approaches the text. The most obvious fault is that he seems to find it necessary -- or at least justifiable -- to cut a passage from this scene and paste it in that scene. Never mind that this is presumptuous; if these transpositions worked better than the original, that would be one thing. But they don't. There's also no sense of real tension or focus; if you didn't know the story going in, you'd have a hard time following the action. The portrayal of Lady Macbeth makes her uninteresting, and merely hysterial, thus annoying. The Scottish accent is annoying, too; it just gets in the way. The whole thing is a colossal waste of 112 minutes, an exercise in self-indulgence for Welles, who apparently thinks he's even more of a genius than the author of Macbeth.