What was so artless and poetic in Chloe Zhao’s The Rider and Nomadland—the romantic evocation of the natural world and its connection to its inhabitants; the authentic performances, often from non-professionals; the striking “stolen moments” that lent the drama its lyricism—has turned severely affected in Hamnet, her adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s novel.
Her slow, detached pans and downward-facing compositions calling self-conscious attention to themselves, and her leads’ turns mistaking maximum effort for moving effect, the writer/director’s fifth feature is a work of tremendous look-at-me energy: all prolonged close-ups and studied master shots of actors weeping, screaming, laughing, longing, and freaking out with sweaty, grimy intensity.
It’s a film that plays so lustily to the back row that it sabotages its tender, empathetic ambitions.
Screening at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival, Hamnet is a fictional origin story for Hamlet, imagining William Shakespeare’s classic as an expression of his grief over the death of his son Hamnet. Zhao’s film, however, doesn’t divulge that focus for its first half and, in fact, even refrains from identifying Paul Mescal’s character as the Bard—itself the sort of groan-worthy affectation that is its stock and trade.
Its initial gaze falls upon Agnes (Jessie Buckley) as she lies in a fetal position amidst the roots of a giant tree whose base boasts an enormous hole, thereby establishing the material’s birth and death motifs. Agnes is a “witch” who spends her days training a hawk in the lush woods, and on her stroll back from one outdoors outing, she catches the eye of William, who’s earning money to pay off his father’s debts by tutoring three children in Latin.
William woos the standoffish Agnes by telling her that she’ll tell him her name after he kisses her, and a bit of handholding later, they’re having breathy, ardent sex on a shed table. This single tryst leaves Agnes pregnant and, despite the protestations of William’s jerky leather trader father John (David Wilmot)—who treats his eldest with contempt—and disapproving mother Mary (Emily Watson), they wed.
When it comes time to have her first kid, Agnes absconds to the aforementioned tree to crouch, contort, and howl at the heavens (presumably like her mother did), and she’s soon again with child. Alas, William isn’t around, since—with his wife’s blessing—he now travels to London to pursue his playwright dreams.
More distressing for Agnes, though, is that a storm prevents her from returning to the forest to deliver, and worse, she winds up having twins—one of whom is initially thought to be stillborn—which contradicts her vision of having two children by her deathbed side.
Bad omens swirl about in Hamnet, albeit in ways that are graceless and obvious. William and Agnes’ younger son and daughter, the healthy Hamnet (Jacobi Jupe) and sickly Judith (Olivia Lynes), are attached at the hip, such that for fun, they dress up as, and pretend to be, each other. This is one of many instances in which Zhao suggests the source of Shakespeare’s plots and narrative devices. Yet these one-to-one connections aren’t illuminating, not only because it stands to reason that the writer took from his life, but because, like this entire affair, they’re made-up.
Nonetheless, they underline that everything is headed toward a tragedy that will serve as the basis for his masterpiece about the Prince of Denmark. Given the opening title card (which informs that “Hamnet” and “Hamlet” were interchangeable monikers in 16th-century Stratford), there’s no surprise about the nature of that forthcoming misfortune.
Even before that occurs, Buckley and Mescal have indulged in more over-acting than any single feature should contain, she making weirdo smirky faces, he furiously pounding his fists on his desk, and the two of them emoting so hard—complete with darting glances, harried pacing, and alternately combative and loving physical interactions—that one can see the strain.
William and Agnes are a compendium of histrionics, and as it turns out, that’s all Hamnet has to offer. The protagonists’ courtship is mere meaningless prelude to Hamnet’s demise, at which point the film wallows, in close proximity and great detail, in their anguish and anger. Unfortunately, Zhao imparts zilch about the loss of a child except that it’s a profound nightmare, and she has even less to say about heartache, other than that it tears individuals apart—and, of course, inspires great art.
These things are true, but Hamnet doesn’t care about complexity; it’s primarily grief porn, dramatizing its protagonists’ agony in a manner that seeks to overwhelm the senses and, simultaneously, distract attention away from the fact that it has no insights into its chosen subject.
Zhao’s camera habitually stares down at her characters, yet this God’s eye view of the action is neither enlightening nor, from a purely visual standpoint, interesting. The same goes for her use of doorways and windows to frame William and Agnes, as well as her panoramas of the deep, dark forest surrounding the clan’s home—a location that eventually serves as the backdrop for William’s staging of Hamlet at the Globe theater, which is attended by Agnes and her inconsequential brother Bartholemew (Joe Alwyn).
The conclusion of Hamnet has Agnes watching that production with first confusion and fury, and then dawning sadness and understanding. Audiences, on the other hand, will be forgiven for simply being exasperated by Zhao’s continuing italicization of the means by which William incorporated into the play aspects of his experiences with Hamnet and Agnes, whether it’s the boy’s desire to be a sword-fighting Globe player, or his spouse’s premonition that their marriage would involve “undiscovered countries.”
The film even has William, shortly before Hamlet’s debut, stand on the edge of a pier at night contemplating suicide while reciting the “To be, or not to be” speech—a moment that flirts with parody.
The death of a young son or daughter leaves a terrible scar that never fully heals, but Hamnet is a drama told in all caps, devoid of nuance or delicacy. It roars and rampages, wails and flails, and creeps and weeps with the type of full-bore showiness that makes for impressive award-show clips. The film’s sound and fury, however, signifies nothing except its own self-satisfaction.
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