Steven Daldry’s “The Hours” is by equal parts an original story, a Virginia Woolf biopic and an updated version of “Mrs. Dalloway,” Woolf’s most famous novel.
The biographical portion of the film, which stars Nicole Kidman in an honest, moving performance as Woolf, depicts the burgeoning madness which tormented the English writer and foreshadowed her suicide in 1941.
The two fictional stories, set 50 years apart, involve a Los Angeles housewife (Julianne Moore) stifled by married life in the 1950s and a New York book publisher (Meryl Streep) who anguishes over the condition of her ex-husband (Ed Harris), a poet dying of AIDS.
All three stories are connected, in some ways more obvious than others. The portions with Moore and Streep, who give lovely performances of their own, tie back to Woolf because their characters, observed over the course of a single day, seem to be living out the story of Mrs. Dalloway — the “perfect” hostess whose elegant facade belies a spiritual emptiness that threatens to undo her.
Both women are preparing a party for men to whom they are indebted: Streep fusses over the preparations for a celebration planned in honor of her ex-husband’s literary career while Moore agonizes over a chocolate cake she hopes will come out right for her husband’s (John C. Reilly) birthday.
During her last years, Woolf was moved by her husband to the countryside to calm her nerves. But in the absence of the London’s energy and drama, her temperament grew precipitously worse. By the end, as the Kidman segment testifies, she longed to return to the urban landscape that had been her solace for so long.
We see a lot of Woolf in Moore’s character. She longs to transcend her world, even if by way of suicide. But the movie is wise enough to know that a life away from cooking, baking and childrearing isn’t a ticket to self-fulfillment, as is witnessed by the path Streep’s destiny takes. She’s wealthy, urban, independent — and a lesbian — but has no more control over her life than Moore.
There is one moment — through an ingenious bit of screenwriting — in which a character from one segment makes an appearance in another, but on the whole, the narratives don’t fall together in any direct way. Still, the movie’s melancholy tone — aided immeasurably by Seamus McGarvey’s dreamy cinematography and Philip Glass’ throbbing, melodramatic score — bleeds from one character’s life to the next, allowing the segments to cohere.
“The Hours” is an odd, beautiful and fascinating film.
