Hamnet

Director: Chloé Zhao
Starring: Jessie Buckley, Paul Mescal, Emily Watson, Joe Alwyn, Jacobi Jupe, Olivia Lynes, Justine Mitchell, David Wilmot, Bodhi Rae Breathnach, Freya Hannan-Mills, James Skinner, Elliot Baxter, Dainton Anderson, Louisa Harland, Noah Jupe
Running Time: 126 min.
Rating: PG-13

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★) 

Those going into Chloé Zhao's Hamnet have already been warned to prepare themselves for the film's defining event, but it's really the painfully raw, unforgiving aftermath that makes this such an affecting watch. Far from a William Shakespeare biopic, the legendary dramatist's professional reputation is rarely addressed, nor is he even necessarily the main protagonist of a movie centered around a pivotal point in his life. Instead, he's seen through the eyes of wife Agnes, who recognizes him as a husband and father rather than the playwright he's toiling away to become. 

While much of what Zhao and co-writer/author Maggie O' Farrell covers is almost entirely speculative, it's rooted in a slice of forgotten, barely acknowledged history still completely unfamiliar to most. And that's why what occurs over the course of these absorbing two hours seems so shocking, as if we've entered territory we're not quite ready for, regardless of any foreshadowing. And though we've seen numerous interpretations of Shakespeare's Hamlet, this hinges on a larger story about love and loss filtered through an absorbing hypothetical about the play's creation.  

It's 16th century England and struggling writer William Shakespeare (Paul Mescal) is working as a Latin tutor when he's immediately smitten with falconer Agnes (Jessie Buckley). Despite strong objections from his mother Mary (Emily Watson) who believes her to be the daughter of a forest witch, Agnes becomes pregnant with their first child, Susanna. But after Agnes is disowned by stepmother Joan (Justine Mitchell), and moves in with Will's family, her brother Bartholomew (Joe Alwyn) arranges for Will to join a London theater company as she gives birth to twins.     

11 years pass, and while Will's career flourishes and frequently keeps him away from their Stratford-Upon-Avon home, twins Hamnet (Jacobi Jupe) and Judith (Olivia Lynes) are inseparable. But when the bubonic plague claims their only son, Agnes and Will's marriage deteriorates, with her resenting Will's extended absences as he continues to withdraw, immersing himself in his latest production. What she doesn't know is how he's been channeling this unimaginable anguish into what soon emerges as his most revered tragedy. 

The film begins with a title card stating how the names "Hamnet" and "Hamlet" are considered one in the same, giving us a clear indicator of the connection between Will's son and the play. There's also some misdirection happening in the first act, where viewers are privy to the fact that a death looms, with all signs pointing to their youngest, most vulnerable daughter Judith rather than her brother. That O' Farrell's novel and script creates this imaginary scenario loosely based on historical events blurs the line between fact and fiction, teasing catastrophe until the actual one arrives, shaking the foundation of a marriage that's already overcome considerable odds. 

Agnes and Will's unconventional pairing is so soundly rejected by their respective families that this Shakespearean origin story might share more similarities with the Bard's even more ubiquitous work about forbidden, star-crossed lovers than Hamlet. And while the ethereal forest scenes are gorgeously shot by cinematographer Łukasz Żal, they're juxtaposed against the pull of a dark, mysterious cave that portends impending doom. 

Lowly tutor Will's family begrudgingly accepts Agnes when her own stepmother doesn't, continuing a trend of abandonment that began after watching her biological mother die during childbirth as a little girl. This trauma manifests itself again with daughter Judith, the twin she most fears for, starting from her stillborn birth to when she later falls ill. But it's Hamnet's unbreakable loyalty to his sister that leads him to "take her place" in the film's most gut-wrenching section. It's also a frightening look at the absence of any effective medical treatment in the 16th century, where survival chances are comparable to a game of Russian roulette. 

In the wake of this horrific loss, Will's physical and emotional distance sends Agnes off the deep end, as does the notion he'd invoke their late son's name in his fictionalized play, seeming to only compound her suffering. But what Zhao does here is amazing since Hamlet actually has little, if anything, to do with Hamnet's death, yet still feels entirely about it in small, subtle ways only Agnes and Will would sense. As a result, watching her see it becomes just as hypnotizing as what's happening on stage. 

Mescal's complex, tormented turn, sheds light on Will's early frustration at being trapped in a job that suppresses creative ambitions his family can't possibly comprehend. He succeeds in getting out from under his father's thumb, but once tragedy strikes, the actor shows us a man incapable of externally expressing the guilt and sorrow that's broken him, instead directing it toward the only thing he knows. 

Buckley is a revelation as earthy healer Agnes, who basks in the joy of marriage and motherhood before circumstances intervene, sending her into a wild, inconsolable rage. Sharing an effortlessly natural chemistry with Mescal, she's called upon to ride a rollercoaster of highs and lows, right up until her character's heartbreaking catharsis in the film's final moments.Young Jacobi Jupe also leaves a lasting impression as the doomed Hamnet while his real life older brother Noah Jupe's portrayal of the actor playing Hamlet works as a projected image of Agnes's own son.  

Powered by two devastating performances, the film continuously builds momentum until we're given a rare glimmer of hope, if not the chance for this couple to somehow move forward. And while we've already seen numerous interpretations of Hamlet on stage and screen, it's never come with the benefit of speculating how or why it was conceived. Now viewed through an entirely different lens, audiences experience two overlapping tragedies, culminating in a drama that speaks to the endlessly complex relationship between grief and art.                                

Frankenstein

Director: Guillermo del Toro
Starring: Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Mia Goth, Christoph Waltz, Felix Kammerer, David Bradley, Lars Mikkelsen, Charles Dance, Christian Convery, Kyle Gatehouse, Lauren Collins, Sofia Galasso, Ralph Ineson, Burn Gorman, Nikolaj Lie Kaas
Running Time: 150 min.
Rating: R

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★)    

When it was announced the newest cinematic interpretation of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein would hit Netflix after a brief theatrical run, a certain degree of skepticism seemed justifiable. Despite the great Guillermo del Toro at the helm, the idea of revisiting this property could still be seen as a pointless rehash, no matter how closely it aligns with the filmmaker's Gothic horror sensibilities. But with this doubt also comes advantages, such as visuals, costumes, makeup and production design that far exceed even our loftiest expectations. So in finally realizing his long gestating dream project, we recognize how del Toro's always been making some form of Frankenstein, only now getting the chance to make it official.   

For del Toro, the devil's in the details when retelling such a familiar tale, as he focuses intensely on the monster's relationship to both the world around him and his obsessively arrogant creator. What starts as a promising experiment soon turns into disaster, with the title character looking to fill the void of a tumultuous childhood while his hubris gets the better of him. Preoccupied with "beating death," he overlooks the potentially dire ramifications, lacking the patience and temperament necessary to control all its unpredictable elements.  

In 1857 a seriously injured Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) is found by Captain Anderson (Lars Mikkelsen), who takes him aboard his icebound Royal Danish Navy ship before the crew is attacked by an angry creature (Jacob Elordi) looking for Victor. As Anderson manages to temporarily keep it at bay, Victor recounts the events that lead him there, starting with an aristocratic upbringing defined by his strict father's (Charles Dance) abuse and the sudden death of his mother after giving birth to younger brother William. 

As an adult, Victor goes on to become a brilliant but egotistical surgeon obsessed with "curing" death by reanimating corpses. This impresses arms merchant Henrich Harlander (Christoph Waltz), who agrees to fund his work while brother William (Felix Kammerer) helps construct the laboratory. But this is complicated when Victor falls for William's fiancée and Henrich's daughter, Elizabeth (Mia Goth), despite her ambivalence toward him. After gathering body parts from dead soldiers, Victor readies his creation, only to discover the Creature's intellectual deficiencies. Frustrated, he abusively lashes out at the Creature, setting them on a dangerous path that will tragically alter everyone's lives. 

Cleanly broken into two parts, the film's bookended structure resembles something of a father-son therapy session, with Victor venting his troubles to the unsuspecting sea captain before the Creature tells his side of the story. We take both their descriptions at face value while recognizing it'll lead to a turning point where their bond crumbles. It's really how del Toro fills in those blanks that's most fascinating, showing how this couldn't have led to any outcome other than the doctor attempting to destroy his prized creation. 

These early scenes of young, impressionable Victor (Christian Convery) are some of the film's best, especially in terms of setting the stage for what's to come, as the off-the-wall surgeon becomes so enamored with his own idea he can't see the forest for the trees, much less the catastrophic consequences ahead. Piecing together a living being out of cadavers may be creepy, but the scariest problem is Victor's deep-seated desire to somehow rectify his childhood pain. Everything comes back to that, including his infatuation with the delicate, sensitive Elizabeth, who sees right through him when he starts mistreating the Creature. 

Casting the otherworldly Mia Goth in a Frankenstein movie is almost too good to be true, making it easy to guess which character will have the most empathy for an abused misfit, with Elizabeth caring just as much for this fragile creature as the insects she's fascinated by. And viewers will need to do a double take to notice Goth unrecognizably also appears earlier as young Victor's mother, Baroness Claire Frankenstein. Having her play both roles is clever mirroring by del Toro, subtly symbolizing how Victor's grief continues to manifest itself in romantic obsession. 

While Victor writes off the monster as an intellectual failure, Elizabeth sees only his innocence and intelligence, which infuriates the maniacal doctor as he searches for reasons why he shouldn't burn his creation alive. Hoping to hear him speak a word other than "Victor," the Creature answers with the one name capable of sending his master off the deep end, in the process shifting the story's focus to this abandoned monster's quest for family and acceptance.

The Creature finds that family on a farm, taking shelter while secretly helping them, but it's his friendship with their elderly blind patriarch (an exceptional David Bradley) that resonates strongest, ultimately proving Victor wrong. And yet the monster's still viewed as an outcast, destined to be ostracized on appearance alone. What eventually drives this kindred "Spirit of the Forest" from his new home reflects that, as the now verbose, fully functional beast hunts down the father who betrayed him. 

Elordi's transfixing performance goes well beyond embodying the Creature's physicality, unlocking a childlike sense of wonder and conflicted confusion we haven't seen to this extent in previous interpretations or even the original text. And if Elordi makes this more a parable about companionship and belonging than we ever assumed, Isaac ensures the mad doctor's childhood loss isn't far out of view, with Victor displaying genuine hesitancy during some of his more depraved moments. 

For Victor, any chance of redemption rapidly decreases when his creation comes back for revenge as the monster society decides he is, forcing his master to face consequences similar to others he selfishly put in harm's way. Michael would top that list, if only for underestimating just how damaged his big brother is, leaving him and Elizabeth helplessly vulnerable. The same can be said for Waltz's giddy Henrich, who initially seems to be Victor's kindred spirit, until his enthusiasm and desperation become a liability for the driven physician. But while the film's resolution is heartbreaking on many levels, there's hope of a new beginning on the horizon, at least for one of them.

Between the 1931 Karloff version, Kenneth Branagh's 1994 attempt and everything else in between, the biggest challenge facing del Toro was bringing something freshly imaginative to the table. But it turns out we were asking all the wrong questions, underestimating his ability to extract new truths from classic material. While still somehow barely deviating from the original text, he not only delivers the best modern take on Shelley's novel, but sets the new standard by which all future Frankenstein adaptations will be judged.                                                           

Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere

Director: Scott Cooper
Starring: Jeremy Allen White, Jeremy Strong, Paul Walter Hauser, Stephen Graham, Odessa Young, Gaby Hoffman, Marc Maron, David Krumholtz, Harrison Gilbertson, Grace Gummer, Chris Jaymes, Johnny Cannizzaro, Brian Chase
Running Time: 119 min.
Rating: PG-13

★★★ (out of ★★★★)  

In Scott Cooper's low-key, surprisingly contemplative Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere, we get a portrait of an uncompromising artist attempting to escape his past, his childhood, his own father and the  fame that began to engulf him in the early 80's. Bruce Springsteen's journey is recognizable, but that's less a flaw with the film than confirmation of how often personal pain powers the work and ambition required to achieve greatness. For Bruce, it was always about the music first, even as his celebrity became an unintended consequence he'd rather ignore. 

Problems often arise when films of this genre employ a traditionally linear approach, cutting corners and running through tired clichés to reach the finish line. So it's to Cooper's credit that he doesn't attempt to cram the entire life and career of the Boss into a two-hour window, instead staying true to Warren Zanes' 2023 book covering the creation of his riskiest album. It's more a fading snapshot of a specific era, with Bruce arriving at a personal and creative crossroads, painfully looking back while trying to move forward.  

It's 1981 when ascending rock star Bruce Springsteen (White) finishes the final leg of his sold-out The River tour and manager Jon Landau (Jeremy Strong) rents him a house in Colts Neck, New Jersey where he can quietly decompress. After stumbling upon the movie Badlands on TV, he starts researching notorious serial killer Charles Starkweather, using his story and the works of author Flannery O'Connor to craft new material. But the home's close proximity to the Freehold neighborhood where Bruce grew up brings back traumatic childhood memories of an alcoholic, mentally ill father Douglas (Stephen Graham), who physically and emotionally abused him and his mother Adele (Gaby Hoffman).  

Calling on his guitar tech Mike Batlan (Paul Walter Hauser) to bring in a four-track recorder, Bruce turns the bedroom into a makeshift studio where he begins writing a collection of somber songs influenced by his blue-collar upbringing. He also starts dating his old friend's sister Faye (Odessa Young), a single mom struggling to make ends meet. After hearing the somber tracks, Jon's perplexed by Bruce's refusal to alter or clean up the raw acoustic sound he perfected in that room. But as Jon faces the impossible task of convincing Columbia Records' exec Al Teller (David Krumholtz) to release the unmarketable Nebraska, Bruce is suffering from a bigger identity crisis than anyone realizes.

Watching this, you see how oddly fitting it is that Springsteen's most recognizable single came six years prior with "Born To Run," a title he appears to live by through much of the film. And though the pressure's on to top The River's enormous success, we're at least spared another rock star's descent into drug abuse and addiction, with the singer having already gotten a front row seat to those consequences as a child. Rather Bruce's demons come in the form of untreated depression, dimming the brightest moments and lessening what should be the highest of highs.  

Strange as it seems given Nebraska's esteemed standing in Bruce's catalogue, the album was actually a huge gamble that could have easily derailed his career. And a folk excursion coming off the heels of one of the artist's more commercially friendly periods only made it a tougher sell. But what's interesting about Cooper's script is how it doesn't necessarily present this undertaking as a choice so much as a flood of memories and influences converging at once, leaving him little option but to lower his guard and let them in. 

Absent among these demos is a radio ready hit like "Hungry Heart" or "Out in the Street," but that's inevitable given the stripped down circumstances under which they're produced. And Bruce won't budge on any of it, rejecting the idea of a tour, singles, promotion, or even his photo on the album's cover. But most importantly, the sound he created in that bedroom must be replicated as it was, minus the usual studio bells and whistles. Neither difficult or full of himself, he's just sure of his work in an era when even the most popular musicians were forced by suits to make crippling compromises. 

While now we know how far a record like this can go in enhancing an artist's discography, the notion of creative freedom or subverting expectations was foreign at the time, even if it bolsters their popularity once they eventually return to the sound with which fans are most familiar. So if it's painful for Jon and producer Chuck Plotkin (Marc Maron) to shelve future all-timers "Born in the U.S.A.," "Glory Days," "I'm Goin' Down" and "I'm on Fire," to accommodate Bruce's more muted vision, it all worked out in the end, with those abandoned tracks defining his legacy on the next album. 

Focusing on the concept album's construction makes this more palatable than it would otherwise be, even if 1950's black and white flashbacks to Bruce's abusive childhood might prompt complaints of Cooper following the genre's typical blueprint. In this case though, it's relevant to both the music's content and emotional scars that infiltrate every facet of the singer's life. This includes a meaningful relationship with Faye he can't help but sabotage, fearful of exposing a side of himself no one's permitted to see. 

Powered by Jeremy Allen White's transformative performance in the title role, we're reminded how singing is only half the battle, if that. Briefly convincing us he sounds good enough to pass muster in the concert scenes is one thing, but actually capturing the Boss's swagger and mannerisms is another challenge entirely, as the actor goes beyond imitation to dig deeper during his many quieter moments alone, haunted by the past. 

Strong leaves a lasting impression as Bruce's biggest advocate, shepherding the release of a possibly doomed album that only sees the light of day with his full support. Critical but realistic, he's a friend anyone would be lucky enough to also call their manager, as demonstrated by his receptive "wait and see" approach upon receiving the tape. His best scene comes opposite Krumholtz's exec, making it clear that his allegiance lies with Bruce, regardless of what the label wants. 

A biopic peppered by a series of depressing flashbacks is good cause for skepticism, but the tropes are mostly sidestepped by Graham's ice cold supporting turn and memories that pay off in Bruce's songwriting and eventual acceptance of where he came from. While the elder Springsteen may have done the best he could, his best happened to be terrible, which is something both need to work past. But in writing an album he didn't know needed to exist, Bruce lets it all pour out, intrinsically tying his music to the endeavor of creating it. Deliver Me From Nowhere is at its best when exploring that process, shedding light on how Nebraska eventually came to be.