Four stars. Rated PG-13, and too harshly, for dramatic intensity and mild suggestive material
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 12.5.14
It’s necessary, up front, to
recognize that this film is adapted from Jane Wilde Hawking’s 1999 memoir, Music to Move the Stars: A Life with Stephen (extensively updated and
re-published in 2008, as Travelling to Infinity: My Life with Stephen).
We therefore cannot be surprised
by the saintly hue that Felicity Jones brings to her portrayal of Jane:
devoted, compassionate and (particularly) patient beyond comprehension. To be
sure, selfless caregivers certainly exist in real life: quiet heroes who rarely
receive the admiration they so richly deserve. And there’s no doubt that Jane
Hawking must’ve had a very hard life, during her early years with a husband
succumbing to motor neuron disease (MND, which is related to ALS, commonly
known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease).
But no displays of impatience or
hostility, no raging against the universe, no signs of crumbling on Jane’s
part? Even if we acknowledge traditional British reserve, that’s a bit hard to
swallow here.
Hard, perhaps, but not impossible
... thanks to James Marsh’s thoughtful, sensitive direction, and the
incandescent performances by Jones and most particularly Eddie Redmayne. The
latter looks, moves and sounds so much like Stephen Hawking, that at times it’s
hard not to believe it’s actually him on the screen.
Most crucially, Redmayne captures
Hawking’s goofy grin, sparkling eyes and irrepressible, Puckish sense of humor.
After the MND robs the man of his limbs — and, eventually, even his ability to
speak — Redmayne nonetheless continues to convey a wealth of emotion with faint
head movements, raised eyebrows, a twitch of that famous smile, and his
darting, ever-inquisitive eyes that miss nothing.
We’ve not seen an actor so
thoroughly inhabit a physically challenged role since Mathieu Amalric’s
portrayal of Jean-Dominique Bauby, in 2007’s equally fine The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.
Bauby’s life changed in an
instant, though, whereas Hawking — and his friends, colleagues and family —
endured the heartbreak of his slow, debilitating slide into utter helplessness.
But we begin in happier times.
It’s 1963, where Stephen is a cosmology student at Cambridge University: the
mischievous, easily distracted member of a doctoral team being supervised by
famed British physicist Dennis W. Sciama (David Thewlis, in a nicely
understated performance). Stephen’s apparent disconnection from real-world requirements
is a source of constant amusement to roommate and best friend Brian (Harry
Lloyd), who probably has to remind his buddy to eat and sleep on a regular
basis.
There’s no doubt, even now, that
Stephen is brilliant; he demonstrates this with his handling of Sciama’s final
assignment of “10 impossible questions”: a deliciously timed, wonderfully
cinematic moment handled brilliantly by Marsh and scripter Anthony McCarten.
Elsewhere, at an after-hours
mixer, Stephen is noticed from afar by Jane, brought to this party by a good
friend who sizes up the room and then apologizes for wasting their time with a
bunch of “scientists.” But Jane already is intrigued by Stephen’s piercing gaze
and mildly disheveled charm: She’s purely smitten, plain and simple. And so is
he.
This “meet cute” moment leads to
a gently unfolding courtship, complete with an obligatory visit with Stephen’s
parents and siblings: a lunchtime gathering supervised by his wry father (Simon
McBurney) and laden with private, artsy banter that would cow most newcomers
into terrified submission. But not Jane; she’s made of sterner stuff, and Jones
maintains an enticing blend of pluck and quiet resolve.
It’s a marvelous tableau, this
lunch, likely far too good to be true. (Indeed, evidence suggests that this
sequence sprang not from Jane Hawking’s memoir, but McCarten’s imagination. No
matter: It plays well.)
This first hour’s most
irresistible element is the blossoming romance itself: the courtship and
eventual marriage between this luminescent British rose and a gawky physicist
given to observations about stars and Tide laundry detergent. Redmayne and
Jones share the same affectionate chemistry that Stephen and Jane apparently
experienced in real life, and there’s no denying the sweet allure of watching
two young people so thoroughly in love.
All too soon, though, things turn
grim. On the one hand, Marsh and McCarten don’t shy from Stephen’s growing
frustration and misery, as his body gradually shuts down; Redmayne’s
expressions of anguish are heartbreaking. Watching Stephen navigate the stairs
(!) of their first flat is akin to receiving a physical blow, and a reminder
that — however famous he would become, later in life — at this stage, Hawking
was an extremely underpaid theoretical scientist.
On the other hand, the more
intimate elements of this couple’s life are circumspect to the point of near
absurdity. Sex clearly takes place; Stephen and Jane have three children.
Granted, we don’t need the graphic realism of 2012’s The Sessions, where John
Hawkes and Helen Hunt so warmly depicted the sexuality of a man trapped within
an iron lung; at the same time, the metaphorically closed doors here hearken
back to the polite fade-outs that substituted for lovemaking in 1940s
melodramas, and that’s a bit much. Or, rather, too little.
Here, too, one gets a sense of
the actual Jane Hawking’s off-camera hand on the tiller ... and yes, Marsh has
acknowledged that she forbade even a hint of on-camera sexuality. The film
suffers from this demand.
It becomes more important as the
relationship between Stephen and Jane begins to fray. Marsh and McCarten are
careful to avoid assigning blame; Jane clearly has become overwhelmed, and Jones’
quiet despair battles the stiff-upper-lip resolve she knows is expected of her.
But Stephen, who sees all, understands that his condition is exacting a grim
toll on the woman he loves; Redmayne’s silent gaze speaks volumes.
And, so, two other key figures
enter the picture: Jonathan Hellyer Jones (Charlie Cox), a widowed choirmaster
at the local church, where Jane hopes to resume the singing that once meant so
much to her; and Elaine Mason (Maxine Peake), an earthy nurse and caregiver who
initially becomes Stephen’s “voice” — with the help of an alphabet board —
after a near-fatal bout of pneumonia, and the tracheotomy that helps save his
life, take away his voice forever.
The resulting dynamic is oddly
complicated, fascinating and thoroughly believable. Cox gives Jonathan a
shattered, highly vulnerable reading: a man still grieving for his former soul
mate (lost to leukemia), who badly needs to find a fresh purpose in life. Peake,
in striking contrast, grants Elaine an authoritative snap that catches Jane
(and us) off guard ... on top of which, we soon discover that Elaine shares
Stephen’s earthier sensibilities.
All this angst notwithstanding,
Marsh and McCarten never let their narrative slide into soggy sentimentality or
turgid melodrama. Although these depictions of Stephen and Jane Hawking likely
are grander and more buoyant than factual reality, we forgive the
strawberry-lensed enhancement; to do otherwise would deny the finely crafted work
by Redmayne and Jones.
On top of which, no less an
authority than Hawking himself weighed in during a recent interview with USA
Today, when he admitted that the film is “surprisingly honest,” and praised
Redmayne’s performance: “At times,” Hawking said, “I almost believed he was
me.”
Redmayne likely will be
remembered as Marius in the 2012 film adaptation of Les Misérables, and
there’s no denying that his superlative efforts here will exponentially enhance
his career. Jones, in turn, has been working steadily for almost two decades,
although mostly in British film and television productions; she might be
recognized as Nelly, the “secret lover” who becomes Charles Dickens’ constant
companion in 2013’s The Invisible Woman.
My one strong complaint is this
film’s frustrating refusal to give us a more accurate sense of the passage of
time. Aside from the initial acknowledgment that these events begin in 1963,
we’re never told what happens when; our only clue is the aging of the Hawkings’
three children. While most of us know that Hawking’s A Brief History of Time turned him into a cerebral superstar, how many remember the book was published
in 1988? This film certainly doesn’t tell us that, nor do significant world
events impinge upon the drama. Marsh rather irritatingly encloses his film
within a rarefied bubble, much like an academic’s equally cloistered university
existence.
That caveat aside, there’s no
denying this film’s gentle power: both in terms of its core love story, and the
depiction and ascent of a rare scientific mind. We get a genuine sense of genius
at work, in a way rarely captured in filmed drama. (Ron Howard’s A Beautiful
Mind also caught it.) Then, too, we’re left with one of Hawking’s most famous
quotes, which speaks volumes both about his own career, and the potential
contained within us all: “However bad life may seem, where there is life, there
is hope.”
Words to live by. A film to
embrace.
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