Hamnet movie

While it can be said that movies about William Shakespeare (whether his life or something less straightforward than that [e.g., Shakespeare in Love, which focuses on what, fictionally speaking, inspired him to write Romeo & Juliet]) have become part of their own genre (or, to put it in a more “Shakespearean way,” a genre unto itself), there is something undeniably unique about Chloé Zhao’s adaptation of Hamnet (co-written with the book’s author, Maggie O’Farrell) than the many others that have come before.

Although the film might be characterized, by some, as “simple” or, to a certain degree, “lacking dynamism,” what it fundamentally ends up doing is humanizing a writer who has been transformed into a literary legend/god as the centuries have gone on. Not only that, but giving more insight into the various difficulties endured by his wife, Agnes Hathaway (Jessie Buckley)—who is more commonly referred to as Anne Hathaway (not to be confused with the actress of the same name, who has yet to play Shakespeare’s wife in a movie). But because Hamnet is born of a historical fiction novel that prides itself on the details, the name Agnes—which is how Hathaway’s father listed her in his, er, will—is used instead.

The Agnes of O’Farrell’s imagination is a stubborn, practically feral woman. Taking to the woods whenever she can with her hawk and gathering plants to make potions. And it is during these outings that Shakespeare (Paul Mescal) is able to observe her from the window while tutoring three boys nearby (to help pay off his father’s debts, as the viewer later learns). Drawn to her in a manner that is inexplicable (and, arguably, right out of a Shakespeare play), he approaches her and the two are immediately physical (i.e., touching, a kiss), in a display of lust that would most definitely be considered “untoward” for the time. Yet, despite this overt attraction, Agnes pushes him away, seeing something overwhelming in him that makes her hesitate to continue.

Not only that, but Agnes is not like the conventional woman of the time who would jump at the chance to be courted. No, instead, she relishes her independence. Can’t imagine any other way of living for herself, least of all becoming someone’s “wifey.” Luckily (one supposes) for her, Shakespeare doesn’t seem to be looking for an “average” woman. Chalk it up to him being an artist “or whatever.” Instead, he can sense something mystical in her that makes her unlike any other woman he’s ever met (or will ever meet). So it is that the two soon go about the business of building a family life together.

Alas, even after getting over the hurdle of the inevitable parental disapproval on both sides (through the crafty strategy of Shakespeare intentionally knocking her up so they have to get officially married), the novelty and excitement of an impassioned love, for Shakespeare, gives way to creative stiflement. And Agnes, being the intuitive and “modern” woman that she is, insists to her brother, Bartholomew (Joe Alwyn, in a marginal role as usual), that he ought to find work for William in the theater in London. This despite the fact that she’s expecting their second child—or what turns out to be fraternal twins, Judith and Hamnet. A traumatic birth in that Judith at first appears to be born stillborn until, after what feels like minutes, breathes herself to life.

So it is that Agnes spends the next few years in a constant worry over Judith, assuming her to be the weak one of the pair. And, for a time, she isn’t wrong. Especially when Judith ends up with the bubonic plague, a recurring health scare at the beginning of Shakespeare’s life, and then, during his adulthood. Indeed, that he and his family of origin were spared from its ravages during the 1564 (the year of his birth) outbreak in Stratford-upon-Avon eventually served as a poetic, almost “Final Destination-like” moment in that it decided to come for one of Shakespeare’s children instead, as though to remind him, “Just because I skipped you before doesn’t mean that you don’t still have to pay the piper.”

To add insult to injury, Death chose to take his only son (in an eerie and heart-wrenching scene, Hamnet negotiates this “trade” with the invisible reaper trying to take his sister away). For in those times, a male was a more “valued” form of offspring in that sons were considered “true” heirs to carry on a patriarch’s legacy (particularly in England—just ask Henry VIII). Of course, as far as many present-day fathers are concerned, little has changed in that regard, with “the son” still being upheld as the most prized gender among one’s children. As for Agnes, she blames Hamnet’s death on herself for being so attentive toward Judith that she failed to notice the potential danger that was coming for her son. Soon, however, Agnes’ rage turns toward William, who she resents for not even being there to bid their son adieu, still wrapped up in his theater life in London when he hears of Judith’s sickness and makes his way toward Stratford to see her. Only it’s Hamnet that he finds dead when he finally shows up.

While Agnes’ expression of grief takes on a more conventional form—despite her being an unconventional woman—William appears to turn inward and go into immediate work mode. His coping mechanism and means of escape from reality. Indeed, there comes a point where Agnes insists that she and their remaining children cannot compete with the place inside Shakespeare’s head for his attention and care. Yet, as Agnes eventually learns through seeing Hamlet performed for the first time, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Everything Shakespeare thinks and feels stems from his love for his family.

In this sense, Hamnet grounds Shakespeare in a kind of ordinariness (that is, as a “family man”) that is still so rarely associated with someone of his talent. However, it is through extraordinary means that he is able (and fortunate enough) to express the extent of his own grief over such a loss—and this done in a manner that ultimately allows his son to live forever. Immortalized in what is still considered one of the greatest plays/works of dramatic literature ever written. So, in effect, and even though she was the dominating force for care and grief throughout the film, he ends up telling his wife without saying it aloud, “My grief is as boundless—if not more so—than yours.” Not that it’s a competition or anything…