Commentary: Sylvia Plath at the movies

There is simply no way to condense the complexity and drama of the seven-year Sylvia Plath-Ted Hughes marriage into a scant two-hour movie. Yet director Christine Jeffs and writer John Brownlow manage to get a story onto the screen that is alive, engrossing and does not demean the memories of its subjects. In other words, "Sylvia" is a minor triumph.

Sylvia Plath's suicide at the age of 30 during a bleak February in London in 1963 has left generations of women shivering with empathic rage, vowing revenge against the husband they branded -- immediately -- as the culprit and cause of her death. His famous infidelity and lack of attention to her art have become legend among feminists and Sylvia wannabes, who have fed off stories of her tortured, fragile soul.

Poor Ted Hughes. He did not have a chance against the legions of women warriors who have assaulted him, and his memory, for 40 years. He realized almost instantly what he was up against and maintained an elegant silence against his critics until a few months before his death in 1999, when he published his own version of his relationship with Sylvia in a book of poems titled "Birthday Letters."

Given the heat of the factions warring over Sylvia's bones during the past decades, I find it remarkable that the film presents such a balanced view of these two poets and their tragic marriage. I know Plath devotees will pick over every scene and nuance, and they will find much information either missing in this saga or somehow misconstrued. Perhaps the filmmakers allowed themselves too great a poetic license, playing around needlessly, it seems, with the timeline and other inexplicable changes of fact.

Sylvia's mother, for example, attended her daughter's wedding to Ted, a brief four months after the couple met at a raucous party at Cambridge University, where Ted ripped off her scarf and an earring to keep as "trophies." The film has Aurelia Plath meeting her son-in-law in the United States and frigidly hosting a party for the newlyweds, all the while expressing disapproval, saying only that he is "different" and doubting that he will be able to support Sylvia.

Yet Hughes wrote achingly of his wedding day, with his bride in her "pink wool knitted dress ... so slender and new and naked, a nodding spray of wet lilac." He described her mother as "brave even in this U.S. Foreign Affairs gamble, (who) acted all bridesmaids and all guests, even ... represented my family who had heard nothing about it." And Aurelia gave them the gift of a cottage on Cape Cod for a summer so they could write and enjoy a honeymoon.

Sometimes truth does not provide conflict enough for a movie.

The film also conveys the impression that the young marrieds lived in dank places, and Sylvia suffered writer's block for the entire seven years of their union while Ted soared in fame and popularity. Again, not close to reality. They spent a lot of time fixing up their various abodes, and Ted generally was helpful about sharing household duties. The thing was, it was the '50s, after all. Sylvia's dream of becoming a great poet was linked closely with her other dreams of living in a grand house, having darling children and cooking passionately for a man to prove her goodness. She did not understand all those lovely dreams might clash when tested. She was a perfectionist and demanded the best of herself. Somehow, she did manage to produce two children, a novel and a published book of poetry, all the while teaching, moving to at least five different homes and promoting Ted's career. Not bad for a woman who probably suffered from bipolar disorder.

This film displays beautifully, through visual and aural imagery, the sensory life of poets -- quite an accomplishment. Every scene seems bathed in the wet mucus of creation. Walls are painted in dark shiny gloss, and water drenches the landscapes. Birds' wings flutter in frustration or exaltation; a subtle but bitter wind alters the mood of lovemaking. Slight gestures and facial expressions condense into tiny moments of distilled intensity, as when a poem is burned to its essence and every carefully chosen word combines to complete the meaning.

Ted and Sylvia are in a rowboat; she tells him, "I'm all dried up." He has taken a walk that morning and a poem burst in his head and spilled over onto the page. "It's no secret," he responds. "You pick a subject and stick your head into it." She demurs, "I don't have a subject." He blunders, she resists, and so together absorbed, they drift out to sea, but not of their own volition. "Tide's dragging us out," Ted mutters. "People drown like this."

This is just about perfect, and it feels correct, even if it never happened.

I expected this film to be more "talky" and contain endless passages of recited poetry. What a pleasant surprise to find it such a visual delight and the poetry more like musical accompaniment. Of course, it must include scenes of mental disintegration, and the ending is wrenching to watch unfold. But when the medics come to take Sylvia away, her lifeless body, carried out through the snow, is wrapped in a scarlet blanket. Years later, Hughes wrote, "Red was your color ... you revelled in red."

Hughes came to know Plath more deeply after her death, through reading her journals, discovering then "the shock of your joy." Her journals are a revelation, after reading only the poetry. How alive she was, and how mercurial her moods. She put down every little mood swing and desire. In her private writing, Plath gives evidence of being what my mother's generation called "oversexed," generously smearing her lips with bright crimson. She liked boys, and they seemed to like her. Yet she did not stray from the marriage, while Hughes certainly did. He left her a few months before her suicide. Then, adding to the tragedy -- and not mentioned in the movie -- six years later, the woman for whom he left Sylvia committed suicide in the same manner, taking their four-year-old daughter with her.

"Sylvia" is not the final word on the Plath-Hughes marriage. Their story will continue to fascinate new generations. New source materials are just now being released from an archive at Emory University in Atlanta. Yet I think, for now, this film will stand on its own as a vivid and plausible record. It has a rare quality of integrity, in large part because of the performances of Gwyneth Paltrow and Daniel Craig as Sylvia and Ted. They are just magnificent.

Craig, although looking older than Hughes' age of 25 when they met, embodies the hulking, primal poet at his devastating peak of attractiveness. Paltrow -- of the chiseled, porcelain features -- manages to capture Plath's strangely shapeless and transitory face, which her friends called "rubbery." Ted later wrote that face "made every camera your enemy."

I remember reading years ago that a director once told Spencer Tracy to let his stubble grow for a scene. Tracy refused, saying, "I'll act unshaven." In "Sylvia," Paltrow "acts" liquid; I've never seen her more expressive or using her unique force so powerfully.

Both Ted and Sylvia must have been tough to live with at times. It's good to see him treated fairly; at least one new book will explore his side of the partnership. Yet I think these two have taken many secrets with them, and may, like Heathcliff and Cathy, be joined in death to wander over their own unquiet graves and leave the rest of us to wonder.

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