Review of "The Hours"Drawing upon her important career
as a critic of social stereotypes, Gloria Steinem recently wrote one of
the most perceptive reviews of The Hours, a movie based upon the novel
by Michael Cunningham. The movie entwines three women's lives, including
one fictionalized day in the life of Virginia Woolf - the day she began
writing her novel Mrs. Dalloway.
Gloria Steinem. "Self-discovery:
a noble journey": Los Angeles Times, January 12, 2003.
Every once in a while, there is
a movie that is not just an escape from life, but an insight into it.
At first glance, The Hours, a screen version of Michael Cunningham's Pulitzer
Prize-winning novel, isn't one of them.
Its three major characters, women
of different eras whose lives on one day are interwoven in this film,
seem too distant from us. There is Virginia Woolf, struggling against
bouts of black depression to begin her great novel, Mrs. Dalloway, also
the story of one day in a woman's life. There is Laura Brown, a 1950's
housewife suffering a kind of soul death in a California suburb where
even her reading of Mrs. Dalloway - or any book - is remarked upon. And
there is Clarissa Vaughan, a professional woman living in present day
Manhattan with her college-age daughter, her woman lover, and her care-taking
duties for a former lover, now dying of AIDs, for whom she is planning
a Mrs. Dalloway-style dinner party.
But as each of these lives unfolds
in the darkened theater, any feeling of distance melts away. For one thing,
the interior life of each woman is revealed with such reality that we
become as hooked on its suspense as we would in any action film; a rare
success in this visual medium. For another, we witness moments of such
concentrated meaning that, if you poured water on them, each one would
become a novel.
For example: When Virginia Woolf,
played with subtle mastery by Nicole Kidman, says, “"I believe
I may have a first sentence", we glimpse the internal struggle of
a writer. When Julianne Moore as Laura, the 1950's housewife, speaks even
to her beloved little boy in an inauthentic "Mommy" voice, we
understand the price paid by everyone when women are allowed to give birth
to others but not themselves. And when Meryl Streep as the modern Clarissa
tells her daughter that she once thought of a moment of happiness as the
beginning of a happy life - only to realize later that this moment was
happiness itself - we get a rare lesson in the importance of living in
the present, which is, of course, the only time we can live.
But the power of The Hours only
really becomes clear as we find ourselves thinking about it, seeking out
friends who have seen it, and eliciting lessons from it for days and weeks
afterward. Because this film assumes that one day can be the microcosm
of a life - and that inner space is as dramatic and worthy of exploring
as outer space - we're moved to value our own days and lives.
After all, our bodies are one-third
solid and two-thirds water, mirroring the earth itself, and our brains
are said to be as complex as the universe. Why shouldn't one day be a
microcosm of a larger life, even the sweep of history? It's a populist
point better made through the days of three ordinary women than though
the lives of leaders whose days would seem already important. It's also
the understanding of Virginia Woolf that caused Michael Cunningham and
so many others to fall in love with her work.
Even as a sports-obsessed fifteen-year-old
boy, Cunningham remembers discovering her as "a genius and a visionary...
a rock star... the first writer to split the atom", as he said in
an interview on The Hours website. Now, he explained, "her greatness
lies in her insistence that there are no ordinary lives, just inadequate
ways of looking at them.... If most great writers scan the heavens like
astrophysicists, Woolf looked penetratingly at the very small, like a
microbiologist... we understand that the workings of atomic particles
are every bit as mysterious and enormous as the workings of galaxies...
it all depends on whether you look in or out."
Thanks to David Hare's imaginative
script that makes three lives resonate with shared themes and images,
and to Steven Daldr'’s transparent direction, The Hours also conveys
this sense that inner space is as vast, dramatic and surprising as outer
space.
Of course, the impulse to keep
thinking about this movie owes something to worry about what it leaves
out. For example, I worry that viewers, especially those who can't empathize
with the self-erasure that goes along with living a derived life, may
demonize Laura for leaving her family to save her life. Some male movie-goers
have emerged bewildered about why Laura wasn't happy with just her nice
house, nice marriage and nice son - as if they would have been.
Even more, I worry that the absence
of even a hint of the sexual abuse and isolation that left Woolf with
childhood flashbacks and a lifetime of trauma, beyond what society was
willing to talk about then, but inexplicably left out of Cunningham's
novel and this film may make her depressions seem a personal fault. For
example, there is a reference to the suicide of one of her Mrs. Dalloway characters, yet not to the fact that he was a traumatized veteran of World
War I to whom Woolf would have felt personally linked. Because the film's
prologue shows Woolf's own suicide eighteen years later, yet gives us
no clue that the march of fascism and the beginning of World War II were
part of what pushed her over the edge. I worry that her radical act of
self-determination is deprived of its context then, and its resonance
now. If the response of The New York Times reviewer is any measure, I'm
right to worry. Though he praised the film, he attributed Woolf's suffering
to the "faulty wiring" of her brain.
But high expectations are the
price of high standards, and this film sets them. The valuable and rare
thing is that individual days and lives and inner worlds, those of others
and also our own, may seem more complicated, miraculous and valuable after
we've seen The Hours than before.
That's not a bad lesson in this
time when destroying lives far away is being presented to us as acceptable
and even desirable. Without the added burdens that Woolf carried for all
her days, we should be able to do something about it.
If we do, The Hours will have
extended the life of the woman who inspired it.
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