Virginia Woolf: Nicole Kidman
Laura Brown: Julianne Moore
Clarissa Vaughan: Meryl Streep
Richard: Ed Harris
Leonard Woolf: Stephen Dillane
Dan Brown: John C. Reilly
13 March 2003
by Jasmine Park
There are not many reasons for me to recommend that you see Stephen Daldry's latest film, The Hours, based on the 1998 novel by Michael Cunningham. In fact, there are quite a number of reasons that you should avoid it, including a brain-numbingly grating musical score by Philip Glass and Meryl Streep's uncharactistically confused portrayal of a modern lesbian New Yorker. But the best thing about the film and its one redeeming quality is Nicole Kidman's performance. In addition to triumphing in spite of the much-ballyhooed prosthetic nose (what picture of Virginia Woolf were the make-up people consulting?), Kidman gives the finest performance of her career in this deeply flawed film, portraying an artist ridden with inarticulate depression, her eyes permanently clouded by troubles. Where Streep and Julianne Moore struggle outwardly with depression and largely fail, Kidman merely hints at the depth of Woolf's sadness and suddenly her character feels alive to us. How terrible films usually are at expressing the madness of genius - think of Ed Harris's infantile portrayal of Jackson Pollack, or Russell Crowe's shameful imitation of schizophrenia in A Beautiful Mind (2001). Kidman endows Woolf with profound eloquence even in the depths of her misery, and single-handedly lifts the movie above mediocrity.
The Hours interweaves the stories of three women of different eras. In 1925, Woolf is recovering from her latest bout with depression in Sussex, while in 1951 Los Angeles, Laura Brown, played by Moore, is baking a cake for her husband's birthday; and in 2001, Clarissa Vaughan, played by Streep, is about to throw a party for her gay friend, Richard Brown (Ed Harris), a writer who suffers in the final stages of AIDS and who has just won an award for a semi-autobiographical novel. All three women are unhappy with their lives, but for reasons that confound even them. Uniting them is Woolf's novel, Mrs. Dalloway, which, in the course of the movie, Woolf pens, Laura Brown reads, and Clarissa quotes.
With Mrs. Dalloway as its inspiration, men necessarily come in a distant second to all the women in this film. None of the men are able to overcome the two-dimensional roles carved out for them, save for Stephen Dillane, who plays Woolf's husband, Leonard. As the only supporting male capable of understanding his absolute helplessness when faced with his wife's troubles, he creates a character of real sympathy; given how relatively little screen time they are given, he and Kidman admirably recreate a troubled marriage in which love is not a question, but happiness is nearly impossible.
Moore, on the other hand, only recapitulates the role that she has played at least three times before - the tight-lipped, discontented suburban housewife. At this rate, she might soon take the crown for most-tired-arthouse-movie-character from the reigning queen, the bitch-on-wheels Catherine Keener. At least in Todd Haynes's Safe (1995), Moore's character was made interesting simply by everything else in the film; in The Hours, she is vastly out-acted by the young actor who plays her son, Richie (Jack Dillane). Dillane's preternaturally soulful expressions speak far more than Moore's tearfulness, and his fear of abandonment registers deeper than Moore's malcontent.
Streep plays one of those inexplicably well-off, literate New York-types who has enough time to buy flowers herself and feel nostalgic for happier times. She visits Richard on the day of the party, and their scene together is appropriately awkward, reflecting a relationship with a long history of affection and spite - he accuses her of forcing him to go on living, and she responds by saying she will make the "crab thing" that he likes. In time, we realize that Clarissa and Richard also share a history as former lovers; Richard's ex-lover Louis Waters (Jeff Daniels) arrives early for the party, and he and Clarissa have a painfully polite conversation that alludes to past betrayals involving Richard. Streep then has a climactic scene in which she finally cracks. This is the first time I have ever seen Streep have a breakdown and not quite know what to do with her lines. The screenplay fails her in this critical moment by giving her absolutely nothing to work with; instead of making us feel as though we are witnessing a failure of words, the scene casts Streep in a rare moment of ineptness.
Claire Danes makes a brief, glowing appearance as Streep's daughter (by a sperm donor, naturally), and Jeff Daniels is surprisingly subdued and patient as Louis. But the film suffers from a distinct unevenness; it presents the paradox of being too obvious in its lack of articulation, baffling us more often than it enlightens. I do not think it has much to say about women that has not been better said elsewhere, and its constant gestures at profundity keep its characters at bay from the audience for most of the film. However, the final scene of Woolf walking quietly and determinedly into the Ouse River in 1941, her pockets laden with stones, is genuinely moving, a truly eloquent moment in an otherwise ineloquent film.
Paramount Pictures presents a film directed by Stephen Daldry. Written by David Hare. Based on the novel by Michael Cunningham. Running time: 114 minutes. Rated PG-13 (for mature thematic elements, some disturbing images and brief language.)
Nicole Kidman as Virginia Woolf in
The Hours.
Julianne Moore as Laura Brown.
Meryl Streep as Clarissa Vaughan.
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