Hamnet

While the 21st century has been marked by impressive auteurs getting sucked up by a Hollywood obsessed with franchises, never to return to their prior form, this year has already provided a few counterpoints. Although Chloé Zhao was probably always more likely to emerge than most, given just how much Marvel's tapping of her became symbolic of its aimlessness post-Endgame, and how its reception proved all those impressions to be one-hundred percent correct. Usually, when cinephiles skip a Best Director winner's follow-up to their Best Picture winning film, it was poorly promoted or failed to secure distribution or went straight to streaming and was thus easily forgotten. In this case, it was the twelfth highest grossing film of the year. The result is that to many (this reviewer included), Hamnet feels more like Zhao's follow-up to Nomadland than Eternals.

The style immediately bears that out, quickly giving us a series of gorgeous, lush, wide shots of Agnes (Jessie Buckley) in the woods, calling a trained hawk to her well-worn (and well-loved) glove, a family heirloom of sorts that links her with the soaring, unburdened freedom of spirit contained within both her late mother and the raptor. As we move inside, Zhao and cinematographer Łukasz Żal continue to find the ideal angles and compositions and blocking to wow you, minimizing camera moves so that when they do, you feel it in your soul. Hamnet's camera is patient, languorously following its subjects, whose own energy and vitality jump off the screen. Even the score matches this approach, often so minimal and small as to melt into the background, gentle touches to converse with your subconscious, only swelling to dominate the scene alongside the most emotionally resonant moments.

If you're unfamiliar with the premise, you could be forgiven for not realizing that Paul Mescal is playing a young William Shakespeare, as the single utterance of his name does not come until the beginning of the end. The quotation that appears on screen at the beginning provides a hint of where all this is to lead, informing us that at the time, "Hamnet" and "Hamlet" were interchangeable names. It's also the clearest indication of the man's identity, save for the names of his family members and some subtle references to his plays. Well, until he recites the beginning of "To be, or not to be" on the ledge of an empty pier late at night.

Zhao is most interested in (and successful at) crafting a pitch-perfect domestic drama centered on Agnes. We see the couples' chance meeting, their quick but rapturous courtship, and their ploy for pregnancy to enable their marriage. Neither is seen as a desirable partner by their families. William's father sees his "fancy education" as a waste, having produced no useful skills in his son, much less made him a worthy husband. And Agnes is rumored to be the daughter of a forest witch, a lineage of women who only emerge from the woods to find a suitable man. Her strength of will, harmony with nature, knowledge of plants and medicines, and disinterest in (most) men do nothing to disavow this notion. But neither is concerned with the challenges posed by such a union, and their stubbornness, along with the support of her dear brother Bartholomew (Joe Alwyn), clear the path to a life of incredible joy and harmony, even as it is not without its struggles.

Given that we're building towards the writing and performance of Hamlet, one of the great tragedies of English-language literature, it's clear this harmony cannot last for long. What's impressive is that a dark sense of foreboding coats the first half of the film, even in their moments of greatest exultation. It's in the way shots are frequently framed with space for another, unseen being, as if Death himself is hanging around the house. It's in the minor key and subtly discordant bits of music employed by composer Max Richter. It's in the haunting yet slight bits of sound design that surround them all times, occasionally exaggerated to remind us that even as all is well, it cannot stay like this forever. It's even in the inadvertent glances between the lovers, as if acknowledging that the Fates will never let their good fortune persist forever.

Every single emotion to grace the screen is made more palpable by the virtuosic lead performances. Mescal is in his element as a sadboy, initially portraying the Bard before he began working in theater, and later when his family life is slightly strained by his long spells away in London, and eventually mightily strained by heartbreaking tragedy. You can criticize him for so often playing a similar role, but his skill is unmatched at preventing such a character from reading as pathetic or cruel or deserving of pity, instead commanding empathy and conveying an endless wellspring of emotion and thoughtfulness even when lashing out. This time around, he's asked to capture a man who was brilliant when putting pen to paper, but considerably less gifted at conversation. And yet, there is no mistaking a soul overflowing at all times, his intent never the least bit clouded.

Despite all this, Buckley has been the one to receive all of the praise from the entertainment press as we hurtle towards awards season. And despite my adoration of Mescal, I must become another of the chorus. From that first shot of Agnes in the woods until the final showstopping sequence that is in contention for best of the year, Buckley is transcendent. Immediately reading as world-weary yet content, knowable and yet not eager to let anyone in, she is the anchor of the whole story, instrumental in communicating the key emotions, and the vantage point from which we experience it. Buckley feels so at home in this world and character, able to embody huge swings in the character's state with seeming ease (emphasis on seeming), playing so well to the audience that even as she becomes embittered you never once question her actions. Her tremendous skill is called upon during the most gut-wrenching scene of the whole tale, when she's called upon to convey debilitating grief, the camera inches from her face as she struggles against the unseen forces of the universe to not be torn apart at the loss of her only son.

If that scene is an impeccable argument for Buckley's all-but-certain Oscar win, then the utterly divine finale will be cited as a culmination of the film's case for Best Picture. Zhao manages to recontextualize the most famous play ever written, not only showing us what it would mean for the theories of it being about the death of their son to be true, but making us feel it. As Agnes watches the debut performance, leaning on the stage, surrounded by the masses, her emotions run the gamut. They begin as fury at the audacity of the stage actors for uttering her son's name, then melt into awe and understanding at the sight of her husband made up like a ghost, fighting back sobs while addressing their son's namesake. I refuse to ruin the final image for you, but suffice it to say that the on-stage death of Hamlet (Noah Jupe) leads to one of the most emotionally devastating scenes of the year, intercut with poignant visions of the deceased, and made even more visceral as the soft, dirge-like opening strings of composer Max Richter's "On the Nature of Daylight" swell into the single, isolated, searching violin that is simultaneously mournful and hopeful, beset by grief but content in the knowledge of the peace imparted by passing into the next world, empowering the living to heal and continue on.

It's the perfect ending to an immaculate story, and Zhao's ability to sit you in that scene for as long as she does without overstaying her welcome is truly magical, merging your soul with Agnes'. That all the pieces come together to so profoundly move me, a thirty-something childless dude who's not yet experienced any premature loss, is astounding. Zhao has brought together a staggering work of immense beauty, easily amongst the best of the year, and showing that her time in the System has sapped exactly none of her creative power.