As much as I enjoyed Shakespeare in Love , I never thought ofGwyneth Paltrow as “Best Actress” worthy. She always reminded me of a snobby girl, born with a silver spoonin her mouth, who just happened to get her foot in the door byhaving Steven Spielberg as an uncle.
But in her new film, Sylvia, Paltrow proves me wrong by diggingdeep into the role of American poet Sylvia Plath and endsup giving one of the best performances of the yearso far.
At first the film focuses so much on the relationship betweenSylvia Plath and her poet writing British-husband, Ted Hughes(Craig Daniel), that it could have easily been retitled Sylviaand Ted. Director Christine Jeffs purposefully sets upthe first act of a “love-conquers-all”relationship to become a cause-and-effect for the tragic,claustrophobic second half.
The film is trying to depict what caused Sylvia tobecome so depressed and suicidal and, unfortunately, Jeff seems tomake the issue seem black and white.
Hughes becomes widely recognized and well-received from hiscritics and young feminist admirers alike. As Hughes’ statusin society elevates, Plath deteriorates with writer’s blockwhich she disguises by incessantly baking cakes andcleaning her isolated home. Soon she begins tosuspect her husband is cheating on her, despite ambiguousevidence, and starts to act both paranoid and rude towards herguests.
The relationship between her and Hughes beginsto fall apart like the spine of a poorly nuturedbook. Thus brings about her calling from within toescape by putting words onto paper as she says to a man, “I feel like God is speaking through me.”
I just didn’t feel that the result of the innerdemons within Plath were justified by what the film suggestsas being the only trigger points. It seems likethere was so much more going on inside of her. Sheis an enigma, but the film seems to suggest it was all herhusband’s doing.
The audience isn’t given much of a window into the mind ofSylvia Plath but then again, neither was the audience in reallife.
After Plath’s death in 1963, Hughes remained silent abouthis wife’s suicide until his own death in 1998 when hisbook of revealing poems about Plath called The Birthday Letters.The book depicts his feelings for her as being too much to carry inlife. Hughes reportedly even burned some of Plath’sjournals fearing the children’s repsonse to them.
Overall the film seems to drag far too long and could have endedso strongly with Paltrow’s performance but unfortunatelycarries on for its pointless final two to three minutes. It’s a shame because the film has some very strong momentsbut ultimately doesn’t live up to Palthrow’s richperformance or that of the life that tormented and devoureda haunted poet.
Sylvia opens Friday at the Magnolia in the West Village.
