Here’s the trailer for Chloé Zhao’s “Hamnet.” We have Paul Thomas Anderson’s “One Battle After Another” to thank for it not being the current Best Picture frontrunner anymore.
You’ve probably read—or at least heard—the gushes and raves about Zhao’s “Hamnet” at Telluride and TIFF, all the talk of it being a Best Picture contender. Is the hype justified? Not entirely. This isn’t the flawless masterpiece critics want you to believe, but I’ll tell you one thing: it has a great ending.
Maggie O’Farrell’s novel “Hamnet” has been described as dense, lyrical, almost impossibly detailed—it seemed like the sort of book that could never survive translation to film. Yet Zhao, who has always been a careful observer of people and landscape, has taken a stab at it—and the result is occasionally stale, but with a closing stretch that lingers in the memory. I’m telling you, that final act meaningfully pays off the slow buildup and elevates the entire film in the process.
The premise is intriguing. Shakespeare’s son Hamnet died young, and his death is thought to have inspired, at least in title, “Hamlet.” O’Farrell imagines that writing the play was a way for Shakespeare to grieve; Zhao’s film has moments where the literalness of that idea feels a bit much, but for the most part, Zhao convinces. What matters is the emotional truth she ultimately reaches: the transformative power of art.
“Hamnet” has other flaws. The courtship of William (Paul Mescal) and Agnes Hathaway (Jessie Buckley) unfolds slowly—the shy tutor drawn to Agnes’s eccentricity, the village whispers that mark her as an outsider. Zhao lingers here, perhaps too long, when we ache to know the boy before he is lost, to live with Hamnet alongside his siblings, to feel that absence with sharper clarity.
Where Zhao sometimes falters, her lead more than makes up for it. Buckley is extraordinary, inhabiting Agnes with a presence that feels both elemental and infinite. When she carries the film to its final, shattering minutes, she channels sorrow and hope, rendering grief as something living—almost too real. Mescal, despite having far less screen time, delivers a commendable performance, though it remains unremarkable until he elevates his game in the final scenes.
About that finale—it’s transcendent. Max Richter’s “On the Nature of Daylight” has been used before, and yet here it feels justified. It’s in that very moment that Zhao’s film reveals its purpose: the intimate grief of a family becomes the nucleus for enduring art. The private sorrow of Agnes and William blossoms into something universal. That alone redeems the film.
What the many raves fail to mention is the uneven pacing and moments that feel slightly coerced. I wasn’t really on board with this film for 80% of its runtime—and then the final stretch hit. What does that say? Does a great ending make a movie? Yes and no. I still can’t shake off the flawed setup, Zhao’s insistent focus on close-ups and meticulously composed shots of actors crying, shouting, yearning, and unraveling.