Hamnet, directed by Chloé Zhao (Nomadland), is a film adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s novel, focusing on the aftermath of personal loss experienced by William Shakespeare and his family. The movie quietly and poignantly captures the emotional and human aspects of their journey without being overshadowed by Shakespeare’s literary legacy. Instead, Zhao emphasizes the themes of loss and recovery following a tragedy, creating a film that is quieter, softer, and profoundly alive.
By Allan R. Ellenberger
Shot mostly in and around Stratford-upon-Avon, the movie mainly follows Agnes and Will Shakespeare after the death of their son. Jessie Buckley, as Agnes, delivers a performance of rare intensity and restraint. She is not showing grief; she is grief, elemental. Buckley views her as grounded, surfacing on currents of earth, watching her life wash away bit by bit in a way she cannot completely describe because she cannot fully talk about what occurred. Reviewers have correctly identified her as the emotional core of the movie. Her performance is fierce, quiet, and righteous.
Opposite her, Paul Mescal instills Will Shakespeare with a heartbreaking delicacy that never elevates him to legend. His Will isn't yet the Bard who stares down from marble busts and portraits; he's a man pulled in two directions by ambition and love— eager to test himself on stage even as his family begins to splinter when he's away. Mescal has received acclaim for his subtly fierce ability to communicate volumes with minimal dialogue.
One small yet staggering detail involves the decision to cast Noah Jupe as the actor who plays Hamlet at the film's conclusion. This moment lands even harder when you realize Jupe's brother, Jacobi Jupe, plays Hamnet earlier in the film.
It's a subtle nod that feels meaningful in its simplicity, as though the film infuses it with an implied sentiment: this is who Hamnet would have become. He would have grown into Noah, eventually old enough to linger under the stage lights and take the place he used to sneak around in years before. Jupe and Jacobi's time onscreen may be limited, but their inclusion tethers Hamnet to Hollywood in one of its most affecting subtleties.
Zhao is patient, tactile, and emotionally meticulous in her direction. She prefers natural light and relaxed pacing, and a camera that rests on hands, breath, and inclement weather — on physicality as a vessel for memory. The film's methodology has been praised by critics who have viewed Hamnet as Zhao's most personal film to date, trusting silence as much as it does words.
The final section, where Hamlet is performed, is justifiably spectacular. As Hamlet lies dying at the edge of the stage, he reaches out—and Agnes, standing close enough to touch, instinctively raises her hands over his. Time freezes. Hamlet looks at her, startled, and they gaze into one another’s eyes. Slowly, others reach out as well. Audience members stretch out their hands to the figure of Hamlet. It is a scene that has left audiences visibly shaken, frequently cited in reviews as the film’s emotional fulcrum—a visualization of communal grief that transcends period and place.
Watching Hamnet, I found myself thinking less about Shakespeare, the great man, and more about the personal toll that creativity takes; about art coming not as catharsis or achievement, but as something close to a continuation of life itself. I was oddly moved by the movie’s final moments, not despite of it, but because they were small and human and so tremendously true. Rare is a film that mourns with such authenticity; that doesn’t try to explain away grief or wrap it up neatly. It lingered with me. For those who appreciate films with emotional depth and quiet introspection, Hamnet is a beautifully crafted journey. It is ideal for viewers seeking a reflective, profound experience that resonates long after the credits roll.
Along with its well-deserved Best Picture nomination, critical response has been passionate and overwhelmingly positive. Many reviewers have singled out the film's discipline and unwillingness to manipulate, as well as its faith in both its characters and audience. Audience response upon release has mirrored this praise, with many early viewers calling Hamnet absorbing, atmospheric, and oddly cathartic. Awards talk has inevitably ensued, with Buckley's performance recently nominated for Best Actress and Zhao's director nomination praised for its ethical sure-footedness and aesthetic beauty.
In the end, Hamnet isn’t interested in Shakespeare’s greatness—it’s interested in what that greatness cost him—or, more accurately, the loss that art can neither cure nor console, only express. Zhao recognizes grief as something alive: grief that passes through bodies and rooms and ages. When all is said and done, Zhao has given us a period piece that feels as timeless as ever, and a meditation on loss that cements just why we need art in the first place. Art doesn’t help us make sense of grief—but can help us sit with it.
Brothers Jacobi Jupe (Hamnet) and Noah Jupe (Hamlet) at an event for Hamnet (2025)
I’d love to hear your thoughts on Hamnet—did the film move you as deeply as it did me, or did it leave you with different reflections on grief, art, and memory?
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