Well, this is awkward. As some of my more frequent readers
may have noticed, I’ve been a bit out of commission for a while now, far longer
than even my biggest slumps to date. This is a result of easily the most
bizarre month I’ve ever had, being sick with one thing or another with severe
overlap between them, to the point where I’m actually typing out this
introduction from a hospital bed. Needless to say, I’m pretty bummed right now.
Seeing as how trying to get back into my usual routine with a bad film didn’t
work out so well last time, let’s see if I can change that with some proper
cinematic soul food. Seriously, just thinking about this film is already
putting me in better spirits and, by the end of this review, I hope you’ll
understand why.
The plot: Emily Dickinson (Cynthia Nixon), a reclusive 19th
century poet, is struggling to get her work noticed, as most during her time
wrote her off for being a woman writing poetry. As she stays connected with her
sister (Jennfier Ehle), brother (Duncan Duff), mother (Joanna Bacon) and father
(Keith Carradine), and the American Civil War looms, she is determined to keep
true to herself and, in spite of contemporary attitudes, be remembered for her
work.
Nixon may be remembered by most audiences as part of the
unholy quartet at the heart of Sex And The City, but after this film, that
preconception has completely left my mind. Not only does she sell the
incredibly sharp dialogue she is offered, her depiction of Dickinson’s
declining health is harrowing to the point of being legitimately painful to sit
through. Of course, that’s only because it feels so close to reality that it
makes one feel like it shouldn’t be on the big screen, but as I’ll get into,
that kind of honesty is what ultimately sells this feature. Ehle and Duff as
Emily’s siblings feel properly fleshed out and their respective chemistries
with Nixon make for absolutely enthralling conversations. Carradine (not Jeremy
Irons, as I initially thought upon first watch) portrays patronly authority
with enough soul to keep him from feeling flat at any point, best exemplified
by his conversation with Duff about Austin’s desire to participate in the U.S.
Civil War.
Bacon as Emily’s mother brings some of the harder emotions of the
entire film, Eric Loren as the reverend makes for a very warming and humane presence
(while Simone Milsdochter is intentionally stiff and reserved to the point of genuine
awkward comedy as his wife) and Catherine Bailey as Vryling Buffum… honestly, I have no other way to
say it: I’ve fallen in love with this woman. The free-spirited nature of her
character, the openness of her words and the impossibly poignant statements
that she makes in pretty much every scene she’s in result in a presence that
almost, but not quite, eclipses that of Dickinson herself.
As you’ve probably picked up on already, I am full of
positive things to say about this film’s writing, to the point where it makes
me somewhat self-conscious. If brevity is truly the soul of wit, then my own
writings are easily the most witless entries on the Internet; I’m hardly the
best person to judge the worth of the written word. However, if I gave a single
care for how people judge my written
word, I would never touch a piece of paper again. What I’m trying to say is
that, much like Churchill, the dialogue here is so bloody good that I actively
wish that I could write this well. Every line of dialogue is bursting with wit,
uttered by characters whom possess the sharpest of human tongues, and yet none
of it feels wasteful or just wit for its own sake.
Instead, because of the
constant focus of the humanity of the people talking, their sparkling
conversations feel like they genuinely speak to some form of tangible reality.
Whether it’s adding a touch of spite to another person’s opinion or speaking
contemporary truths that, somehow, still
ring true in today’s world, I legitimately cannot speak highly enough of
Terrence Davies’ writing here. Poetry, to quote Coleridge, is the best words in
the best order and that’s essentially what we get here; once again, a far
greater mind than my own was able to sum up what makes this script work so well
in a single line that took me a whole paragraph to even glimpse at.
Not that the brilliance on display is all in writing,
however. As much as the phrase has become associated with higher-class art
critics and (to be honest) pretentious-as-all-hell filmmakers, this production
is a terrific showing of the use of visual
poetry as well. Cinematographer Florian Hoffmeister (AKA the guy who shot the
atrociously annoying Mortdecai) just glides through each scene, breezing
through every conversation and capturing just as much of the film’s world as is
needed to prove a given point. Filming conversations in film is a deceptively
easy process: You may only be turning a camera towards people talking, hardly
the most strenuous activity actors could be doing, but it’s difficult to make
just two or more people talking seem interesting or, more accurately, seem important.
The story itself is rather
minute, focusing solely on Emily and the furthest it stretches from there is to
her relationships and witticisms with her family, and yet it feels like the
most absorbing thing you could be spending your time with. Everything from the
dialogue to the inner turmoil to the frequent bouts of illness and subsequent
death, no singular moment feels like it spends too little or too much time
being focused on. Everything is given its time to breathe, and yet it doesn’t
feel like we’re lingering on any one moment for any longer than we need to. It
is not only rare for a film’s pacing to be this perfect; it’s supposed to be
impossible.
So, what’s the grander point of all this? Is there a grander point? Well, given
how the main focus is the life of a poet, it delves into a fairly simple
question: What makes a poet? In keeping with the writer/director’s seeming ease
in putting together this film structurally, the answer to that question is
shockingly simple: Honesty. Knowing how sheer fidelity to the real-life story
films are often based on is near-impossible (hence why I rarely, if ever, hold
films up to that standard), I haven’t taken the time out to research how
accurate this may or may not be to the real Emily Dickinson’s life. Not that
you’ll feel much need to, though, because even if the events we see may or may
not have even occurred, the film makes it feel like the most real thing to have
ever happened. And no one part of this film better showcases that than Nixon as
Dickinson, a force of raw and unflinching honesty that highlights both the
worth of her poetry (which is used expertly, juxtaposed against key events in
her own life) and the mind that created it.
Dickinson is shown to be courageous,
theologically complex in her reaction to God, death and all in-between, and
never one to bite her tongue. Her ability to arrange words that speak to the
human condition (vague praise, I know, but hear me out) is matched only by her
verging-on-requirement to call out the world for what it is. Hell, a crucial
scene where she berates another character’s infidelity ended up making me
realize a certain fallacy in my own take on these types of conversations in
media. I believe in truth mattering far more than Man’s feelings, but not every
truth is worth ending a connection with another person over; it took watching
this film for that to actually sink in for me. Basically, on top of everything
else, I get the feeling that this film will somewhat alter my understanding of
the world after having seen it for the better.
All in all, I absolutely love this movie to within an inch
of its existence. The acting is ideal in every regard, the writing is deeply
witty with some of the funniest dialogue I’m expecting to hear for a very long time, the production makes
tremendous skill seem dead easy with how much it packs into such a small space,
and the overall effect is what all poetry should aspire to do: Light a fire
within the human soul. This isn’t a film to be watched but experienced, letting
the multi-disciplinary poetry wash over the senses and tap into something truly
heartfelt in the process. My earlier insecurity with my own form of writing
mainly exists because, when dealing with a film this worthy of genuine praise,
I would like to be able to offer it what it deserves. I can only hope I have
done just that.
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