There are many ways to describe grief – it’s the mask behind which we try to hide our pain, the feeling of immeasurable loss and hopelessness, the lingering sense of dread and despair that follows you daily, or even “the thing with feathers”, a simple but evocative term coined by Max Porter as the title of a book that explores this exact subject. Unfortunately, every one of us grieves differently. A specific set of guidelines on how to appropriately mourn seems almost impossible, regardless of how many supposed experts genuinely believe that they can condense the entire experience into a set of instructions, since it’s an experience that is tailored to each individual based on several factors. Instead, every person approaches a loss differently, and there is something to be said about grief being a universal experience, albeit in many different forms. This is where Maggie O’Farrell found the inspiration for Hamnet, her fictionalised account of a few years in the life of Agnes Hathaway, the wife of William Shakespeare, who spent her entire life mostly in the shadows, a supportive partner to her world-renowned husband, whose career eclipses her own life in most situations. The story follows Agnes and William as they deal with the death of their son (after whom the playwright named his most famous play), who was a victim of the plague, being robbed of life before he even reached adolescence. The author adapts her own novel in collaboration with celebrated filmmaker Chloé Zhao, who also directs the film in one of her most poetic, compelling works to date. It follows both the initial meeting and courtship between Agnes and William, when the latter was hired as a Latin tutor for the former’s rebellious young brothers, as well as the years that followed, looking at their pleasant domestic life – all of which fell apart after Hamnet’s untimely and sudden passing, which caused both of his parents to spiral into a state of deep, unrequited depression. One of the year’s most moving, complex achievements that sees O’Farrell’s beautiful novel being turned into a harrowing, deeply haunting film that attempts to make sense of the most immeasurable kind of loss anyone could ever experience.

It has often been said that there is no pain quite like losing a child – the idea that there isn’t a common term used to describe someone who has lost a child in the same way that we have terms such as “widow” and “orphan” has been discussed extensively as a means to support the idea that no such word should actually have to exist. We can instead turn to the old Sanskrit word “vilomah”, which is often translated as “against the natural order”, which is precisely the description that encapsulates just how unbelievably tragic it can be for a parent to witness the death of their own offspring. At its core, Hamnet is a film about the experience of losing someone who you were never supposed to outlive – unfortunately, life is entirely unpredictable, and there are cases where a parent has to bid farewell to a child. The approach Zhao and O’Farrell take in exploring the subject is to define the death of a child into two distinct periods (it can be applied to any other passing, but it is particularly important to focus on this very specific kind of grief) – namely the period before, and the moment afterwards, separated by a brief moment in which someone slips from life to death, a brief change that can entirely derail the lives of all those around them. It’s a challenging subject to even write about, so it’s impossible to imagine what it feels like to endure it – and throughout this film, Zhao asserts as much compassion as she can to examine what would have likely been felt by those who are forced to be placed into this position where they have to mourn the loss of someone whose death is nothing if not premature. As a film about parenthood, Hamnet is a daunting work, since it attempts to recreate the inconceivable loss of a child, which cannot ever be mimicked, and instead has to rely on the closest approximation, which is already leagues away from the actual grief that was likely felt, especially for such a sudden passing. No parent wants to lose their child, but there’s something even more harrowing about it happening almost immediately, especially in a situation where it can be considered preventable, as was the case with the titular character in this film, whose own death emerged as an act of ill-conceived empathy.

Much like the approach we described, which is dividing one’s life into the periods before and after the loss of a loved one, Hamnet is essentially two films that orbit around the same event. The first is the courtship and family life of Agnes and William, showing their passionate romance and their efforts to raise a family – those scenes are defined by a kind of gentle joy and hope (even if we know what is still to come), reflecting the optimism Agnes felt towards the future, believing that she and her husband still had a long life together with their three beloved children. This sharply changes with the second half, which follows the days (and eventually months) following Hamnet’s death, which is where some of the most compelling and disquieting commentary resides. The focus is on showing how both parents grieved – for Agnes, she has to force herself to get up every morning and be a wife and mother to her surviving children, an act of near-impossible strength, and proof of her resilience in a situation that no mother ever wants to find herself in. It’s foolish to think life will ever return to the way it was before, but there is also very little use in collapsing into the grief when it is far more important to find the strength to continue. This is contrasted with William, whose response to his son’s death is not to embrace the domestic life, as was the case with Agnes, but rather to retreat from it, finding solace in his work. This is the root of some of the film’s tension, since characters begin to wonder how William could return to writing when a more appropriate response would be to avoid it entirely. This is until we come to the final moments of the film, in which everything falls into place and we see how O’Farrell and Zhao posit that Hamlet was not merely a work of historical fiction by the greatest playwright of his era, but also a moment of communication between a father and the son he lost, a quiet letter of affection and remembrance in which every one of his emotions were filtered. Once again, Hamnet is a story about how everyone grieves differently, and through following the parents of the titular character as they navigate their own periods of mourning, it shows the strength it takes to even begin to process a loss that no one should ever have to face in any form.

It is undeniable that Hamnet is a film defined by the weighty subject matter, and Zhao is very much aware that this story is primarily going to need actors who can not only adhere to the period-specific elements (such as the dialect) but also handle the deeply unsettling themes that would make even the most brilliant of performers feel intimidated. Jessie Buckley has the unenviable task of playing Agnes, a woman who has seemingly achieved something as close to pure happiness as possible – she and her family live a modest but joyful life, and everything seems to be falling into place for this humble young woman who just yearns for a peaceful life. When her son dies, she’s plunged into a state of inconsolable grief – and it is at this precise point that we find Buckley’s performance becoming so extraordinarily moving. At the precise moment of Hamnet’s death, she lets out one of the most chilling, primal screams ever committed to film, a shriek of pure horror that gradually is extinguished into a quiet moment of deep, uncontrollable grief, one that we are not sure anyone would be able to fully emerge from without having an impossible amount of strength to just continue living. It’s an extraordinary moment that has to be one of the most harrowing depictions of loss ever shown on screen, and likely one that is going to be one of her most defining pieces of acting as she continues to build this extraordinary career. It’s a quiet performance that resists going for the most obvious approach, and instead focuses on real, authentic emotions more than anything else. Similarly, Paul Mescal does something similar with his depiction of William Shakespeare – despite portraying the eternal Bard, this story isn’t about him as a writer or cultural touchstone, but rather a husband and father who is forced to work through his emotions in the only way he knows how: through his writing. It’s a subtle, beautifully-balanced performance that never demands our attention (since this is Agnes’ story from start to finish), but rather is fine to settle as a supporting part, allowing Buckley’s extraordinary performance to be the focal point, while also not entirely neglecting the importance his role plays in the unravelling of this story and all that it represents.

While the story around which Hamnet is based is strong enough that even the most inexperienced of directors could have easily made something remarkable, Zhao is far from a neophyte, and except a momentary detour into franchise filmmaking (her entry still being a noble failure, and certainly more interesting than those of other, less-intriguing filmmakers), she’s more than earned her keep as one of the most compelling filmmakers working today. Her work here is wonderful – it is not an easy task to set a film over five hundred years ago and make it seem so extraordinarily compelling, as well as deeply accurate – the costuming and production design is impeccable, being less about the splendour and more about evoking life during this period, so for anyone with an interesting in history, Hamnet will certainly be more than worth their time. However, the filmmaking itself, as impressive as it may be, is only secondary, since Zhao is far more committed to the quieter and less tangible aspects of the film, which are communicated through the emotions. In the hands of a lesser filmmaker, or perhaps one who doesn’t quite possess the necessary skills to bring this narrative to life, Hamnet would be hopelessly overwrought. It is a tragedy in both the artistic and socio-cultural sense, and the emotions are the primary propellant for this aspect of the film. The director is not afraid to circle around the difficult conversations where required, but does so in a way that feels authentic and meaningful. There is a difference between manipulating the viewer to feel certain emotions and guiding them through a powerful story in which we are witness to some harrowing moments, but where every emotion we feel is organic, formed from our own relationship with the story and how we interpret its many complex themes. It’s a masterful work of emotionally-charged filmmaking that proves that tragedies can be explored without them becoming overwrought, and while it may certainly not be appealing to those who don’t enjoy these more intense depictions of grief, we can’t ignore just how extraordinary Zhao’s handling of this subject matter is, her own sincere empathy and deep humanity being reflected in every frame.

There is a moment towards the end of Hamnet where Max Richter (who composed the original score) places his incredible composition “On the Nature of Daylight” after a last-minute decision from Zhao and the rest of the crew – its what we hear as the film reaches its climax and comes to a close, a moment that is both sprawling in its emotions, and deeply intimate. This encompasses everything that makes this film so intriguing – it’s a story set in the past, based around the life of one of history’s most famous artists, but yet it is not directly about his work or anything we normally associate with him, but rather an attempt to focus on a chapter of his life (and that of his wife, who is the primary perspective from which the film is viewed) that has mostly been shrouded in mystery, residing in obscurity until O’Farrell attempts to explore this particular subject. Zhao’s gifts as a filmmaker can never be denied, and Hamnet is an incredible achievement – it may be a slight departure for her in terms of era and setting, but it proves that, even when doing something quite different, she is still capable of constructing something extraordinarily meaningful and captivating. It’s a well-crafted drama that navigates complex ideas in a way that is nothing if not wholeheartedly moving, challenging us to travel through one of the most harrowing, unimaginably tragic experiences anyone could ever have with these characters, following them as they grieve for their son, while finding the strength to move forward, regardless of how much strain the rest of their lives take in the process. Anchored by exceptional performances from Buckley and Mescal, both of whom deliver stellar work that is complex, lived-in and deeply meaningful, and driven by a director whose compassion and unrequited humanity is without comparison, Hamnet manages to do the impossible, namely taking a challenging subject and exploring its many nuances, daring to provoke while never trivialising the emotional content, ultimately leading to a film that may be quite difficult to work through based solely on its emotional content, but while tends to linger with the viewer long after it has ended, being as poignant as it is hopelessly beautiful.