Dir.
Christine Jeffs, UK , 2003, 110 mins
Cast:
Gyneth Paltrow, Daniel Craig, Amira Casar, Blythe Danner, Michael Gambon, Jared Harris
While there has been a slew of biopics recently (Iris, The Hours), the life story of "feminist icon" Sylvia Plath, and specifically her relationship with fellow poet Ted Hughes, has long been anticipated for big screen treatment. Media darlings of the age, the intervening years since Plath's suicide in 1963 have seen the couple elevated to the Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton of the literati. Plath (played in the film by that other latter day blonde WASP "intellectual", Gwyneth Paltrow) was outwardly the embodiment of a good, clean New England girl, whilst Hughes (a floppy-haired, charismatic Daniel Craig) was the big, rough English northerner. No other couple has polarised interested public opinion so, with posterity painting Plath as the wronged, tortured genius who, during her short life, was eclipsed by the towering talent and masculinity of her genius husband. Hughes, in turn, has been demonised for his power over Plath, and for the fact that he chose to leave her, and for the fact that she chose to end her life by gassing herself to death. That the woman he left her for later also committed suicide, taking their child with her, has only fuelled the notoriety and myth.
Having publicly decried her anguish at her own father's, producer Bruce Paltrow, death a few years ago, Paltrow is a natural choice to play the woman whose insecurities and mental anguish seem to stem from the death of her father when she was eight-years-old. Paltrow's is not a tour de force performance by any means; both script and acting deny the full complexity of the woman. Plath was arrogant, self-assured, acerbic, and intelligent. Read her 1950-1962 journals and one can't help but wince at the cruel streak she exhibits. None of these are on display in Sylvia. Instead, what we see is the other Sylvia; the Sylvia who was wracked with self-doubt, the Hughes protegee who both blossomed and withered under his patronage, the woman whose insecurities eventually turned on her and drove the man she loved into the arms of another female. All true, no doubt, but where is the wit and strength and intensity of the woman? This is not on display nearly enough and as such the film does Plath a disservice. However, where the film does succeed is in depicting Plath's inner emotions. Her sense of detachment and isolation is clearly palpable, and the insular torment that permeates her published journals is acutely depicted by both Paltrow and the filmmakers.
Of course, the real-life soap opera of Sylvia and Ted continued with Hughes famously breaking his silence on their relationship with the publication of his Birthday Letters poems in January 1998. Written and addressed to Plath over the 35 years he survived his wife, their publication finally provided the companion piece to Plath's own poetry, with Hughes evidently working through his own guilt and emotions at Plath's suicide, and very much aware of his role in which he was cast: "Nor did I know I was being auditioned For the male lead in your drama."
The much-maligned target of the feminist lobby venom finally announced to the world the love he felt for the woman and, in doing so, cast out his sin. Daniel Craig is surprisingly good as Hughes, displaying both the brilliance and majesty of the man, along with his vulnerability; you ache for this couple who are both so in touch with their own emotions but can only communicate them through a pen and a piece of paper. There has long been a question mark over whether creativity is a product of talent, or of an instability that needs to express itself. Here we see the collision of two huge creative forces, one of which is consumed by the other, leaving the survivor half a person at their loss. It is to the film's credit that both Sylvia and Ted are sensitively depicted.
If anything, it is the lack of poetry that most disappoints. Ariel, the posthumous anthology that sees Plath most searingly working through her inner demons, and the aforementioned Birthday Letters, could have been creatively woven into the fabric of the film, in much the same way Julie Taymor used the actual paintings of Frida Kahlo to forward the narrative in the recent biopic of the Mexican artist, to display the true essence of the film's subjects.
Plath and Hughes' own children have denounced Sylvia, but this is mainly due to the fact that they would prefer to not see their own mother's suicide re-enacted for all to witness. Indeed, it is the image of Plath lovingly preparing her children's milk and biscuits and placing towels around the gaps in the kitchen door before committing her final act that most encapsulates the woman - the wife and mother whose own inner self denied her the security she craved.
This film does not portray the whole picture for there is no whole picture. The striving for the whole picture IS what this film is all about, and as such is poetry in itself. Like Plath and Hughes themselves, the film is flawed, but there are flashes of genuine insight that make this a moving tale for anyone new to the Sylvia and Ted show, and a worthy addition for those who are not.
Jean Lynch
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