To Grieve or Not to Grieve: On 'Hamnet'.

    It can be difficult to humanize a name as aggrandized as Shakespeare. One of the first things high schools use in a desperate attempt to get teenagers excited about old English is that we actually do not fully know who William Shakespeare was, with the only proof of his humanity that sustains itself into the modern day being the life and personhood he was able to breathe into all of his uniquely (for his time) multifaceted and substantial characters. In Hamnet, Chloe Zhao adapts a novel by the same name that imagines the struggle that could have led the almost mythical Shakespeare to create what many call his best work: Hamlet. Both the film and novel delve viscerally into parenthood, religion, gender roles, and more to paint an awe-striking picture of navigating the singular kind of grief that comes with the death of one's child. Thus, it is no surprise that watching this film (in theaters, as god intended) was what finally got me to make a blog after thinking and not doing for months. 

    The film's emotional heart is no-doubt Jessie Buckley's (evil and sinister) performance as Agnes, who earnestly loves, loses, and feels magnitudes and transmits it flawlessly; both in those raw moments that scream out and force tears from your eyes and those silent, poignant ones where a gentle glance or a softly held hand is enough to make the tears simply come out on their own. All of that said, despite her astonishing performance, the character that spoke to me was Paul Mescal's portrayal of William Shakespeare. For the first half or so, Shakespeare is undeniably the other; a man who prioritizes literacy and academia in a small 16th century English village that practically forces men to do manual labor while their wives take care of the home. This makes him a perfect match for Agnes, who is also othered by both her unwillingness to stay inside and her distinctly not Christian belief system. The main struggle in their relationship, though, is that Agnes is on the outskirts of society because she longs to be completely outside of its bounds, while William finds himself wanting to be almost at the head of it; creating culture and connecting people through art. They temporarily "solve" this through allowing him to be in London, which is a much more conducive place for art and academia, with Agnes saying her choices are to either cope with him being away when he is or to lose him entirely. This remedy, however, does leave most of the emotional strain on Agnes, leaving her to have and raise three children practically on her own while Shakespeare gallivants the streets of London and makes a name for himself doing what he is passionate about. That is not to say being away from his wife and children is easy for him; just that he has a lot more silver linings than Agnes does to deal with the same situation. 

    Agnes' exhaustion with this and previously unaddressed clear differences between the two culminate in the moment so horrific they have no choice but to: Hamlet's death. Obviously, Jessie Buckley is flawless in capturing the heart-shattering moment in which it happens; the gentle, solemn aftermath of still having to parent other children in the wake of this one; and her unbridled anger both at herself and at William for his absence. What spoke to me most, though, was William's initial perceived numbness and how it pays off in what is somehow more of an emotional climax than the death of a child: the play made to honor it. In a film like Hamnet that constantly ebbs and flows with emotion and subtleties displaying the inner workings of its characters, it was almost jarring to see William be so avoidant and numb to his son's death. When he rushes back in from London upon suspecting something is wrong, you expect him, with everything in you, to shatter. To scream, to throw things, to punch a wall, to sob, to swear he would never be absent from the house again. Instead, he is incredulous, and then gone. Off to London again after he had missed Hamlet's death for being there in the first place. 

    Of course, in hindsight, we know that he was off to honor Hamlet's memory and profess his love for his son in the only way he knew how: by creating Hamlet. For a character as innately and primally attuned as Agnes, however, this was incomprehensible. It was clear that emotion simply overtook her and flowed out as it came to her, as natural and unrestrained as the forest she grew up in. For William, it was important to process his emotions through his art, focusing and channeling them into a specific project and fine-tuning it to be as perfect as his son and the love he has for him. This part of the film spoke to me because, in many ways, I see myself in William. It can be difficult to simply feel things out for me. Sometimes it feels clumsy or embarrassing to just break down when things happen. So, the way to get these things out is to harness and distill them into a medium, because I do not possess that quality where it simply emanates from me in waves like it does for others. This, to me, outlines the purpose of art: to be understood and to understand others. At the culmination of Shakespeare's play, the titular character, Hamlet, dies at the front and center of the stage, where Agnes watches from. In this moment, she simply extends her hand and connects both physically and emotionally with the actor onstage. Moments later, the entire audience extends their hands out too, in a beautiful moment of human connection through mutual understanding of loss and grief. It becomes clear to Agnes that William was not avoiding grief or lacking any amount of love for their son; rather, he had to focus it and find an outlet for it in the way he knew how, immortalizing and honoring him through theater.

    This final moment of connection is what stuck with me most about the film, and a moment in cinema I doubt I will ever let go of. That connection between artist and audience and back again is the backbone of art and what it means to be human. An artist makes their work to be understood by their audience. The audience feels represented and understood watching because their experience is mirrored by someone else, proving they do not feel in isolation. This silent exchange of empathy and and warmth is what, in a world that sometimes makes us feel as though we do not have the time or space to be flawed or vulnerable, reminds us we're human.