There are
three stories going on in Stephen Daldry’s new film The Hours
about three different women during three different decades, but
all are held together by the single day they encompass. They are
also haunted by the specter of Virginia Woolf, maybe the most
fascinating – and frustrating – writer of the 20th century, and
consumed with the passions and themes of her literary work.
In one
story a 50’s California housewife (Moore) struggles with making
a birthday cake for her easy-going husband. In another, a
modern-day lesbian and mother (Streep) puts the finishing
touches on a party planned for a dying friend – and ex-lover (Ed
Harris) – on the day of his receiving a prestigious award. In
the third, Ms. Woolf (Kidman) herself begins writing her
groundbreaking work Mrs. Dalloway while having to deal
with her own neuroses.
Laura
Brown (Moore) is suffocating in her 1951 suburban life.
Reading Mrs. Dalloway, she is struck by how the heroine’s
life seems to mirror the emptiness of her own. Her husband Joe,
an agreeably enough oaf (played by the wonderful John C. Reilly
who really must stop playing this type of character), treats her
almost as an after thought; the home and children she’s provided
with feel like a reward for service rendered during WWII.
He doesn’t
notice his wife’s quiet torment and depression, but their young
son Ritchie (Jack Rovello) does. While helping his mother
prepare for his father’s birthday, the young boy’s concern for
his mother is palpable, Ritchie’s face contorted between looks
of despair and helplessness. When Laura leaves her son with a
friend for the afternoon, Ritchie knows something is amiss,
crying desperately for his mother to stay with him and not
descend into darkness.
Clarissa
Vaughn’s (Streep) problems aren’t about loneliness. The only
person holding her back from living life is herself. The busy
New York editor seems to have it all: a spacious condo, a loving
girlfriend of ten years (Allison Janney) and an artificially
inseminated college-age daughter (Claire Danes) who thinks the
world of her. And yet she’s torn by regret, not knowing if this
life she’s chosen is the one that best suited her.
It is in
preparations for a party in honor of her former lover and friend
Richard (Harris) that she finds herself starting to whither
into despair and ennui. An acclaimed poet, Richard is dying of
AIDS and a life now made up of good and bad days seems to be
quickly tilting towards a win by the latter. He toys and flirts
with Clarrisa, calling her "Mrs. Dalloway" for the way she is
living her life and taking care of those around her but forgetting
to eek out a place of her own.
But it is
Ms. Woolf herself who sees the tragic way life can unfold. Over
the course of the day she starts work on what is to be a novel
that will shatter all literary conventions. On the way she finds
herself steeped in the pain and conflict she continually battles
on a day-by-day basis. A visit by her sister Vanessa Bell
(Miranda Richardson) and her children make it crystal clear that
a normal life is not in the cards, but instead of letting that
tear her apart Woolf just adds it to the litany of things
against her choosing to fight on and not give in.
Nestled in
the country to be away from the bustle of London as to battle
the moments of insanity that consume her, Woolf realizes that
the quiet life will surely kill her faster than a life of energy
and action that the city provides. Her husband Leonard (Richard
Dillane) – he’s the one leading the life of painful sacrifice,
the feminine life, here – doesn’t want her to return to the
city. He knows that the voices and ghosts that plagued his wife once before can not help but to return if she goes
back. But Virginia is resolute. “You cannot find peace by
avoiding life,” she tells her worried husband, and he knows at
that moment London is where they must return to even if it means
his wife’s own sanity might be threatened.
This is a
complex, multi-layered peace that bobs and weaves through time
and place skillfully and with little artifice. Daldry is far
from the lightweight fun of Billy Elliott here, but the
seems between eras is hardly evident. Having not read Michael
Cunningham’s Pulitzer Prize winning and supposedly unfilmable
novel, I cannot say how adroitly playwright David Hare’s
screenplay follows it, but what is on screen is masterfully
constructed.
Yet, there
is a "but" coming and I only bring it up because The Hours
for all of its virtues is an extremely tough sit. This may be
the singularly most depressing film I have seen all year, and
that is saying something with the holocaust drama The Grey
Zone still looming in memory. This is a work obsessed with
female guilt and depression. Pain is its cornerstone identity
making the movie unbearably grim much of the way through, with
three very distinct suicide attempts – two successful – nestled
deeply at its core.
I couldn’t
escape, however. Being a huge fan of Woolf’s work – college
imparted something, I guess – I was amazed at how much
Cunningham’s story and Hare’s script covered her themes and
thoughts on life and womanhood so expertly. The scenes with the
author, especially, are bracing in their effectiveness. This may
be the most brilliantly executed look as to what it is to be a
writer, to look at life through a skewed perspective and to
passionately bring it forth on page.
Kidman,
with all the talk of a prosthetic nose (the resemblance to the
actual author is uncanny) taking up most of the
headlines, is a revelation. A good actress, whose been dabbling
with greatness the last few years, makes the leap here to
excellence. This is a portrayal of striking depth and pathos,
the torture and longing in each look and glance enough spark a
glimmer of feeling out of the most jaded filmgoer.
Dillane
matches her as Woolf’s long-suffering husband. His was a life
spent taking care of and trying to nurture genius, even when he
realized Virginia probably did not love him quite as fully as he
did her. That said, there was still great love between them –
Woolf was bisexual and had an affair with Vanessa – and when she
descends the steps towards her death in the river Ouse – she
could not bare to let the madness that for so long tormented her
earlier in life descend once more – it is not before leaving him
a letter explaining and expressing her undying devotion to him.
There is a
scene between the two of them at a train station where Virginia
has come to think that ranks amongst the best moments of the
year. It is here that she spills her guts to Leonard about
longing to return to London, and Dillane’s reactions are so
humanly responsive that my heart broke in two. These are just
the types of moments film was made for, and Dillane and Kidman
truly make the scene come alive.
Don’t get
me wrong; The Hours may be 2002’s most powerful film. But
it is also harsh, unforgiving and not for the faint of spirit or
heart. It is dealing with themes and topics that are still being
fought some six-plus decades since Virginia Woolf’s death. But
Daldry and company do themselves and the audience a favor from
not shying away from this complexity of emotional resonance. As
such, The Hours is film to treasure long after the final
curtain has shuttered to a close.
