I saw “Hamnet” and it validated my grief better than any media I’ve encountered over the last year and a half.
Since my dad passed, I’ve learned to be selective with grief-centric content. There are times when reading, watching or hearing about others’ grief illuminates my own and allows me space to remember my dad. But there are also times when I feel I can’t function if I spend too much time in that remembrance and I’d just rather be distracted. I’ve been in that compartmentalization mode for a while now.
But with the arrival of the holiday season, I’ve found memories of my dad around every corner. It’s in every family gathering where he’s absent, every child’s recital he won’t be at, and every tradition we used to practice together. It’s only our second Christmas without him and the grief is inescapable.
So when my husband suggested we go see the new film “Hamnet” — which I knew was focused on grief, based on the trailer — I wondered if it would be too much to handle or a helpful catharsis. I ultimately decided it would be the latter and we went to the show.
“Hamnet” is a novel-turned-film about William Shakespeare’s marriage, his family life, the death of his son Hamnet and the creation of arguably his greatest play, “Hamlet.” It stars Paul Mescal as Shakespeare and Jessi Buckley as Agnes Shakespeare. Both give Oscar-worthy performances, but Buckley’s might be the best acting I’ve ever seen, especially in the scene of Hamnet’s passing. The emotion she evokes as she lets out an anguished howl with her dead son in her arms is so raw that I would not be surprised to learn she had witnessed the unexpected and untimely death of someone she loved in her own life. I cried so hard that I struggled to breathe. It was devastating, for everyone, based on the chorus of sniffs ringing throughout the audience.
But it wasn’t just the scene of Hamnet’s death that resonated with my relationship to grief.
I’ve wondered, often, whether or not I’m grieving correctly, as though there is a correct way to grieve. Like maybe everyone else in the world who has lost someone was given a grieving instruction manual and mine got lost in the mail. Because much of the time, my grief doesn’t always manifest in wailing and anguish, but more in a need to create something from my feelings.
The second part of ”Hamnet” focuses on the ways in which grief reshapes the Shakespeares’ lives and relationships, and how their expressions of grief differ and, at times, clash.
Agnes’ grief is one of immediacy. She carries the pain of holding her dying son through every moment. William’s grief, as portrayed by Mescal, however, seems removed. He was traveling home when Hamnet died and when he sees his lifeless son, he can’t quite make sense of what has happened and what it could possibly mean for their family. For much of the second act, he exists in a fog of confusion.
His and Agnes’ forms of grief seem in direct opposition with each other, which, eventually, leads him and Agnes to be in opposition with each other. Eventually the time comes for Shakespeare to return to London and get back to work. He leaves Agnes with their two daughters and, as the months pass, they cease communication.
It is only when Agnes learns that Shakespeare is about to premiere the play “Hamlet,” named, to her shock, after her late son, that she seeks out her husband and finds him at the Globe Theatre for the premiere. And it is only when she sees the character of Hamlet on stage that she understands why her husband had to return to writing so soon after the loss of her son.
It was my dad, actually, who once told me that he knew I needed to write to understand my own thoughts. It was one of the many times he made me feel seen and understood. And he was correct. I am often unable to parse how I feel about the world until I write.
I would never be so presumptuous, nor so incorrect, as to compare myself to William Shakespeare. But the portrayal of Shakespeare’s brand of grief in “Hamnet” — his need to put words to and make a creation of his grief — felt like the truest representation of my own experience.
In the immediate aftermath of my dad’s death, I felt almost removed from myself. Existing in a fog of confusion. Like I was watching myself and my family from a distance, trying to comprehend what his passing meant. It wasn’t until I sat down to write his obituary that I really started to process his loss.
And it’s been that way since. I’ve found that it is only in writing about him that I am truly able to remember him. The same, I assume, holds true for anyone who feels compelled to create in the wake of death.
Toward the end of “Hamlet,” Agnes reaches out and touches the actor playing Hamlet on stage. She realizes in that moment that because of her husband’s creation, her son will be immortalized through generations.
This is the hope I, and anyone who has lost someone, hold on to — that through words and memories, they will continue to inhabit our world. Maybe not through generations, but for as long as we’re a part of it.