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connielane at 05:51pm on 14/11/2003
connielane at 05:51pm on 14/11/2003After a morning that I should not have worked, since I am here until 10pm tonight, I took the afternoon and went to see Sylvia. I studied Plath in college, where the professor of 20th Century Poetry had done her doctoral work on Sylvia Plath (and T.S. Eliot - whose "Waste Land" led to an almost mental breakdown in yours truly). Plath's former husband, Ted Hughes, published Birthday Letters (and subsequently died) during the semester I took this course and for which I studied the poems of both he and Plath.
I am frequently disappointed by biopics, particularly if I know something about the subject. The film Sylvia was therefore bound to be a disappointment. I had high hopes, though, because I happen to be a great admirer of Gwyneth Paltrow (the actor, not the movie star), and it was another excuse to see Michael Gambon on screen (I've been catching up on the work of the adult Harry Potter actors - sad, I know).
Well, I was disappointed. However, it had little to do with the acting or the camera work. I didn't like the focus the film had. The entire film was about Plath's stormy relationship with Ted Hughes. I understand that the romance angle was probably the most marketable, but it really sells Plath short to zone in on that one aspect of her life, as if she was entirely defined by her relationship with a man. And there is no backstory of any kind to give the viewer any insight into why she was the way she was. We hear about her suicide attempts through her own exposition, and there is no explanation as to why she tried to do it. There was no background on her father or the devastation brought by his death. And there is no mention of her relationships with her contemporaries, most notably Robert Lowell and Anne Sexton.
Most egregious of all, however, was the centerpiece of the film, Plath's relations with fellow poet Ted Hughes. The film is entirely too generous (I feel) to Hughes, and seems to intimate that his infidelity was largely in Plath's head, and that she drove him away. I realize that we don't know everything about their relationship, and I certainly don't want to argue that, as many scholars have said, he was somehow responsible for driving her to suicide. But the film made it look like Plath was suspicious of him at every turn, and invented a great deal of his philandering.
I did think that Gwyneth Paltrow did a phenomenal job with what she was given. This is the kind of part she rarely gets to play (if ever), and she pulls it off marvelously. She also manages to look strikingly similar to at least the younger images of Plath. I also love the use of poetry in the script, and not just that of Plath and Hughes. Paltrow's recitation of the first lines of "The Wife of Bath's Tale" (in perfect Middle English) to a herd of cattle was one of the best moments in the film to me.
Because I'm in the mood, then, here's something with which to remember
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies,
These are my hands,
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
"A miracle!"
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.
And there is a charge, very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer,
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Cheery, isn't she?
I am frequently disappointed by biopics, particularly if I know something about the subject. The film Sylvia was therefore bound to be a disappointment. I had high hopes, though, because I happen to be a great admirer of Gwyneth Paltrow (the actor, not the movie star), and it was another excuse to see Michael Gambon on screen (I've been catching up on the work of the adult Harry Potter actors - sad, I know).
Well, I was disappointed. However, it had little to do with the acting or the camera work. I didn't like the focus the film had. The entire film was about Plath's stormy relationship with Ted Hughes. I understand that the romance angle was probably the most marketable, but it really sells Plath short to zone in on that one aspect of her life, as if she was entirely defined by her relationship with a man. And there is no backstory of any kind to give the viewer any insight into why she was the way she was. We hear about her suicide attempts through her own exposition, and there is no explanation as to why she tried to do it. There was no background on her father or the devastation brought by his death. And there is no mention of her relationships with her contemporaries, most notably Robert Lowell and Anne Sexton.
Most egregious of all, however, was the centerpiece of the film, Plath's relations with fellow poet Ted Hughes. The film is entirely too generous (I feel) to Hughes, and seems to intimate that his infidelity was largely in Plath's head, and that she drove him away. I realize that we don't know everything about their relationship, and I certainly don't want to argue that, as many scholars have said, he was somehow responsible for driving her to suicide. But the film made it look like Plath was suspicious of him at every turn, and invented a great deal of his philandering.
I did think that Gwyneth Paltrow did a phenomenal job with what she was given. This is the kind of part she rarely gets to play (if ever), and she pulls it off marvelously. She also manages to look strikingly similar to at least the younger images of Plath. I also love the use of poetry in the script, and not just that of Plath and Hughes. Paltrow's recitation of the first lines of "The Wife of Bath's Tale" (in perfect Middle English) to a herd of cattle was one of the best moments in the film to me.
Because I'm in the mood, then, here's something with which to remember
I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot
A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine
Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?--
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me
And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.
The peanut crunching crowd
Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot--
The big strip tease.
Gentlemen, ladies,
These are my hands,
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.
The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut
As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.
It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical
Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:
"A miracle!"
That knocks me out.
There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart--
It really goes.
And there is a charge, very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash--
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer,
Beware
Beware.
Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.
Cheery, isn't she?