Frank Ochieng is a guest critic who also writes reviews for his own personal website, located here.

To become a Guest Critic for CINEMA 2000, please notify David Keyes.

Review Uploaded
01/31/03

1 hr. 54 mins.
Starring: Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore, Nicole Kidman, Ed Harris, Toni Collette, Jeff Daniels, Claire Danes, John C. Reilly, Allison Janney, Miranda Richardson, Stephen Dillane
Directed by: Stephen Daldry

Rating: *** stars (out of 4 stars)

If we’re going to have an obligatory feminist drama that prides itself in presenting a sophisticated and poetic profile of three diverse women in perilous forethought, it might as well be in the form of director Stephen Daldry’s (Billy Elliot) lyrical and highly inspirational showcase The Hours. Laced with an all-star power pack of impeccable performers, this elegant literary-based narrative is based upon Michael Cunningham’s moody Pulitzer Prize-winning novel. The Hours is a rousing entry by Daltry because he’s asked to convey the multi-dimensional frailties and anxieties of his handful of heroines. The film, whose screenplay was written by resourceful British playwright David Hare, is a sweeping fable of estrogen-induced emotions. Occasionally, there’s a dash of an overly sentimental touchy-feely vibe that borders on the manipulative nerve. Plus, the intention of basing the vulnerability of today’s feminine sensibilities on the angst of a detached historical figurehead from yesteryear feels mildly cloying at times. But when you feature absorbing work from three of the most revered actresses (Meryl Streep, Julianne Moore and Nicole Kidman) toiling in cinema today then the movie can be forgiven for its intermittent dramatic lapses into trite self-righteousness.

The Hours tells the strangely liberating and harrowing tale of a couple of women from different time periods that make an eerie psychological connection to the legendary but deeply troubled author Virginia Woolf (played with robust complexity by Kidman). Woolf’s impact on these admirers would convincingly influence their wounded souls thanks to her treasured and classic written work entitled “Mrs. Dalloway” (incidentally, this was her fourth novel that was written). In an odd and unnerving opening sequence that takes place in 1941 Sussex, England, Virginia Woolf is calmly devising a farewell letter to her unsuspecting but generously tolerant husband Leonard (Stephen Dillane). She then methodically marches down to the river where her fate is put in the hands of the hasty waves. As if to show a gesture of relief to squash her unstable and unfulfilled existence, Virginia weighs herself down with heavy stones as she strides into the unkind water while looking to literally and figuratively flush out all the misery and lingering turmoil that exists in her lanky delicate body. And so the currents become her instant watery grave as it releases the tension and sadness that consumed this talented but perturbed writer. Naturally, her demons were too pervasive to overcome.

As we travel ahead in time, we are introduced to early 1950’s pregnant housewife Laura Brown (Moore). Laura likes to unwind and gets a charge out of reading the animated exploits of “Mrs. Dalloway”. But much like Woolf and her fictitious protagonist Dalloway, Laura feels the despair and isolation that is ominously closing in on her. No one seems to sense her helplessness except for the keen awareness of her concerned young son Richie (Jack Rovello). It’s ultimately clear that Laura identifies with the depression mode that previously consumed her printed page hero Woolf. The parallels are the same in terms of predicament. Whereas Virginia had a supportive and thoughtful spouse in Leonard, Laura has the same deal in Dan (John C. Reilly). In fact, Dan tries his best to comfort his distant wife but remains clueless to her ineptitude as an appreciative lover and competent homemaker. Laura can’t even pull herself out of the doldrums enough to recognize Dan’s birthday celebration. As if to alarm and cause more dissatisfaction in her mental capacities, Laura has to hear about the bad news concerning her neighbor Kitty’s (Toni Collette) damaged uterus. Kitty may be the social darling around the neighborhood but she would kill if only she had what Laura takes for granted-the ability to have children. Anyway, Laura is speechless and feels for Kitty’s pending dilemma. In fact, out of nervousness she kisses Kitty firmly on the lips…something that’s not exactly in the norm for early ‘50s suburbia. Overwhelmed and in pure disbelief, Laura had entertained sinister thoughts of ending her life by stuffing an abundance of pills in her system to numb the pain. However, her continued reading of “Mrs. Dalloway” convinces her to hang in there and fight for her fractured livelihood.

In contemporary times, we meet New York-based editor Clarissa Vaughan (Streep). Clarissa is successful professionally yet there still seems to be something missing in her life as well. Apparently Clarissa has a lot to contend with on her plate as she prepares to host a party for a poet friend who recently won a distinguished writing award. Her personal situation is such that she has an adult daughter Julia (Claire Danes) as well as a live-in lesbian lover named Sally (Allison Janney) whom she has been intimate with over a decade. But the real cemented relationship for Clarissa comes in the person of Richard (the always terrific Ed Harris), an ex-lover from ages ago when they both thought their sexual leanings were of a heterosexual nature. Richard, who’s dying of the dreaded AIDS virus, has always remained close with Clarissa throughout the years since their breakup when they both decided to invest and pursue same sex unions. Clarissa is fearful that Richard will soon leave her to fend for herself emotionally and mentally.

Richard, it goes without saying, is the actual strength and magical crutch upon which Clarissa was always able to rely on. The man has always had tremendous talent as a writer but somehow doubts or downplays his abilities. His playful nickname for his friend Clarissa has been Mrs. Dalloway because of her off-kilter spunkiness and erratic ways. To see her precious Richard wasting away after being a source of admiration for the longest time only puts Clarissa in a reflective, haunting mood. When Richard’s ex-lover Louis (Jeff Daniels) flies in from San Francisco to take in the event regarding Richard’s award-winning accomplishments, he and Clarissa reminisce about the solid common denominator that they both had previously and presently in a cherished individual about to succumb to a dastardly disease.

Virginia Woolf, as we witness in a stream of flashback scenes, has always juggled her mental illness at various stages has been no stranger in the ill-advised activity of her numerous suicidal attempts. Because of the unpredictability of her erratic behavior, the always patient Leonard transported Virginia from the hustle and bustle of swinging London to the calmer countryside in hopes of curving her stress level. But this did little to suppress the menacing mood swings. One moment Virginia may be cussing out the hired help then the next moment she is even-tempered in her social gathering with her sister Vanessa (Miranda Richardson) and her children. But whatever element of suffering and outrage that Virginia experiences, it serves as appropriate fodder for her inspired character of “Mrs. Dalloway”.

The Hours is an involving and thought provoking exorcise that dutifully examines the nature of femininity from a seductive and stimulating point of view. The film is brazenly ambitious in its ability to reach out and corral doses of alienation and dysfunction and apply these concepts to the empty spirituality of these gifted but emotionally drained women. Daldry astutely displays a discontentment in these vulnerably ladies that translates marvelously for the audience to invest their attentive apathy in. Everything works efficiently to bring some passionate verve to the film. Whether soaking up the vividly lush cinematography by Seamus McGarvey or losing yourself to the soothingly dynamic musical score of Philip Glass, The Hours captures the essence of its time-traveling field trip through its hallucinatory allure. The contrasts are beautifully drawn with festive shades of coloring and dazzling imagery: 1920s England is earthy and nostalgically artsy, 1950s Los Angeles is bubbly in its retro-look at straight-laced Eisenhower-era suburbia and the nowadays of progressive New York City looks as chic as it does exude an exquisite fast-paced urban charm.

As a riveting story, the reality concerning this picture is at times heavy-handed in its syrupy convictions but one cannot deny the harsh and heartfelt examination of three sad sack souls bonded by one common goal-the search for that mystique state of euphoria called elation and the solution for eliminating the silent rage that disturbingly pushes their buttons of uncertainly.

Kidman brings the resilient fiber and subtle intensity to her portrayal as the complicated and confining Virginia Woolf, an artist trapped in her own solitude of despair with only her art form of writing as the saving grace in her purpose for being. Beyond the pronounced prosthetic nose and the bird’s nest style hairdo that’s saddled on her head, Kidman is able to convey the frail scriber as the unbalanced genius that she was in her short life.

Moore’s Laura is much like her other alter ego Cathy Whitaker in the brilliant Todd Haynes’ golden age melodrama Far From Heaven in that she is stuck in the pseudo-idyllic times of the malt shops and bobby-socking period where innocence and happiness ruled and was automatically an assumed ideal condition for the upscale, privileged Harriet Nelson prototype homemaker with nothing to worry about besides the trivial concern of running out of milk for the kiddies’ breakfast. Moore does a terrific job in both cases of her Heaven and Hours roles because she’s craftily thumbing her nose at the labeled notion that the high-heel wearing housewives can have their neuroses in tact and may be more pressured in feeling “complete” than one might think. The projected image of the desirable lily-white wife and mother whose secure lifestyle in her dream-like surroundings is definitely played with an irreverent and telling sarcasm that only a skillful actress such as Moore can pull off with consistency. Her swaying and underlying edginess in the bleeding skin of Laura Brown is dark and unassumingly scary.

Streep’s Clarissa is not as wound up tight as her other counterparts and may have traces of each woman’s caustic characteristic (sharing Woolf’s self-loathing and literary interests and Laura Brown’s sense of unworthiness and abandonment) but she nevertheless is in a distinctive terrible funk. Being used to supplying the nurturing instincts to her daughter Julia (who’s grown up and independent) and her longest and dearest companion Richard (who’s dying), Clarissa has run out of excuses to neglect herself and now must direct some attention to her own fragile existence. Streep is tremendously effective in presenting the dichotomy of a supposedly thriving self-sufficient professional woman that’s ironically an insecure individual who prefers the safety net of not standing on her own two feet metaphorically speaking. At least Virginia and Laura had insurmountable restrictions within their societal heyday where they couldn’t sexually and financially branch out and be as creative, expressive, aggressive, risky and open-minded as the fortunate Clarissa living in more seemingly lenient, advanced times.

Imaginative, compelling and soundly perplexing, The Hours resonates with throbbing performances that cast a poignantly redemptive spell on the psyche of every woman looking to starve off that inescapable sensation of inadequacy.