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Hollywood was weird in the thirties. Really weird. Imagine a world where a massive studio like Warner Bros. decides to dump a fortune into a high-art Shakespeare adaptation directed by a German theater legend who barely spoke English. That’s exactly how we got the A Midsummer Night's Dream 1935 movie, a film that feels like a fever dream caught on celluloid. It wasn’t just a movie; it was a cultural collision. You had Mickey Rooney—who was basically a hyperactive kid at the time—screaming as Puck, alongside sophisticated European ballet dancers and a shimmering forest made of literal tons of cellophane and glitter.
It’s easy to look back and call it a relic. But honestly? It’s kind of a miracle it exists. Max Reinhardt, the director, was a titan of the stage, and he brought this massive, expressionist energy to a medium that wasn't quite ready for it. The result is something that looks more expensive than most modern blockbusters but feels more intimate and unsettling than your average rom-com.
The German Genius and the Hollywood Gamble
Warner Bros. wasn't known for "class." They were the studio of gangsters and gritty social dramas. So, why did they greenlight this? Basically, they wanted prestige. They wanted to prove that "talkies" could handle the Bard. They hired Max Reinhardt, who had already staged the play dozens of times in Europe, most notably at the Salzburg Festival. Reinhardt didn't care about "film grammar." He cared about spectacle.
He brought in William Dieterle to help with the technical side because, frankly, Reinhardt was a theater guy. He didn't get how cameras worked. They spent about $1.5 million—an insane amount in 1935—to build a forest on a soundstage. It wasn't just a set. It was an ecosystem. They used hundreds of thousands of yards of cellophane to make the leaves look otherworldly under the studio lights. When you watch the film today, the forest doesn't look "real," but it looks magical. It has this eerie, shimmering depth that CGI still struggles to replicate because the light is hitting actual physical objects.
Hal Mohr, the cinematographer, actually won an Oscar for this. The crazy part? He wasn't even nominated. He was the first and only person to win an Academy Award via a write-in vote. That tells you everything you need to know about how much this film stunned the industry. The lighting is high-contrast, moody, and almost noir-like in places, which is a bizarre choice for a comedy, but it works. It makes the faerie world feel dangerous.
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A Cast That Makes No Sense (But Sorta Works)
The casting is where things get truly chaotic. You’ve got James Cagney—yes, the "you dirty rat" guy—playing Bottom the Weaver. It sounds like a disaster on paper. A tough-guy gangster doing Shakespeare? But Cagney is actually heartbreaking. He plays Bottom with this desperate, earnest energy. When he gets turned into a donkey, he doesn't just play it for laughs; there's a weird vulnerability there.
Then there’s Mickey Rooney. He was only 14. He had recently broken his leg and had to be whisked around the set on a bicycle or hidden behind bushes in half his scenes. His Puck isn't the cute, mischievous sprite we usually see. He’s a feral, screeching wood-demon. His laugh is genuinely piercing. Some critics at the time hated it. They thought he was too loud, too "American," and too obnoxious. But if you look at the text, Puck is kind of a chaotic nightmare. Rooney nailed the spirit, even if he missed the refined "thespian" mark.
- Olivia de Havilland made her film debut here as Hermia. She was only 18 and had been understudying the role in Reinhardt's stage production at the Hollywood Bowl. She’s luminous.
- Dick Powell as Lysander. Powell was a crooner, a musical star. He hated being in the movie. He reportedly felt ridiculous in the costumes and didn't think he could handle the dialogue.
- Victor Jory as Oberon. He brings a sinister, regal authority that grounds the more frantic elements of the plot.
The blending of these styles—the vaudeville energy of Joe E. Brown, the gangster grit of Cagney, and the classical training of the European dancers—created a texture that hasn't been seen since. It's a mess, but it's a magnificent mess.
Why the 1935 Version Still Matters to Film Historians
Most people forget that this film was basically banned in Nazi Germany. Not because of the content of the play, but because the composer, Felix Mendelssohn, and the director, Max Reinhardt, were Jewish. Warner Bros. took a massive risk by sticking with Mendelssohn's score. The music is as much a character as Puck or Bottom. Erich Wolfgang Korngold, who would go on to define the "Hollywood Sound," was brought in to arrange Mendelssohn’s music. He stretched and pulled the themes to fit the film’s timing, creating one of the first truly "composed" feeling scores in cinema history.
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The film also pushed the boundaries of special effects. They used multiple exposures, forced perspective, and innovative lighting rigs to make the faeries appear tiny or translucent. There’s a sequence where the faeries ascend a moonbeam—it’s pure cinema. It’s the kind of stuff that influenced everyone from Walt Disney to Guillermo del Toro.
The Problem with Shakespeare on Film
Let’s be real: Shakespeare is hard. Most filmed versions are just plays caught on tape. They’re static. They’re boring. The A Midsummer Night's Dream 1935 movie avoids this by being aggressively cinematic. It moves. The camera glides through that cellophane forest. It uses close-ups to capture the sweat on Cagney’s face and the glitter on Anita Louise’s skin.
However, it’s not perfect. It’s long. At over two hours, it can feel like a slog if you aren't vibing with the aesthetic. The dialogue is cut heavily in some places and left to breathe too much in others. The pacing is uneven. But these flaws are what make it human. It was an experiment.
Critics in 1935 were divided. Some saw it as a "high-water mark" for the industry. Others thought it was a gaudy, over-produced distraction. But it's the version that proved Shakespeare could be a "movie-movie." Without this, we might not have the big-budget adaptations of the 90s or the experimental versions we see today.
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Misconceptions About the Production
One common myth is that the film was a total flop. It actually did decent business in big cities, but it struggled in smaller towns where audiences weren't exactly clamoring for iambic pentameter. Another misconception is that the actors hated it. While Dick Powell was vocal about his discomfort, most of the cast felt they were part of something historic. Cagney, in particular, remained proud of his performance as Bottom, seeing it as a way to prove his range beyond just being a "tough guy."
There’s also the "Write-In" Oscar. People think it was a fluke. It wasn't. The industry was so impressed by Hal Mohr's work—especially how he handled the difficult lighting of the shiny sets—that a genuine grassroots campaign started to get him the award. It forced the Academy to change their rules the following year to prevent write-ins from happening again.
Actionable Takeaways for Movie Lovers
If you're going to watch the A Midsummer Night's Dream 1935 movie, don't go in expecting a modern masterpiece. Go in expecting a historical artifact that still has a pulse.
- Watch the 4K restoration if possible. The detail in the sets and costumes is lost in old, muddy TV broadcasts. You need to see the shimmer of the cellophane to appreciate the craft.
- Pay attention to the music. Listen to how Korngold weaves Mendelssohn’s themes through the dialogue. It’s a masterclass in film scoring.
- Compare it to the 1999 version. Notice how the 1935 film leans into the "dream" aspect, whereas later versions often try to make it more "grounded" or "realistic." The 1935 version is unapologetically weird.
- Look for the "Ballet Russe" influence. Many of the faeries were professional dancers, and their movement adds a layer of physical grace that separates the supernatural characters from the "mortals."
The 1935 film is a reminder that Hollywood used to take massive, weird risks. It’s a collision of high art and low comedy, of German Expressionism and American Vaudeville. It shouldn't work, but for 132 minutes, it creates a world that feels entirely unique. Even ninety years later, no one has quite managed to replicate its specific brand of glittery, dark, Shakespearean chaos.