Emily Dickinson is my favourite poet apart from Shakespeare, and, in my estimation, also happens to be the greatest poet beside Shakespeare. The differences between the Bard and the Belle of Amherst are multitudinous and immense, but they are connected in how I see each of them by two common traits: a Herculean, colossal cognitive struggle with (and, in some ways, triumph over) the cosmos, which marks the distinct originality and greatness of their poetry; and the shockingly (yet, somehow, aptly) minute amount we know of each of their outer lives, as well as the regrettable absence of a chronicle of their monumental inner lives. The character of Shakespeare has already been featured in a small handful of films, sometimes not totally in earnest, but Terence Davies’s assuredly masterful and astoundingly emotional biopic A Quiet Passion features the first appearance of Dickinson on the screen. And, as befits the greatest poet of her continent and one of the greatest in the language, the film is an exquisite and unforgettable masterpiece that — I note bitterly as awards season is underway — has not received the recognition it certainly merits. If it had been released in theatres in South Africa last year, I may well have placed it right at the top of my list of favourite films of the year.
I have only seen one other film by Davies, his first, Distant Voices, Still Lives, from 1988. If that film and this one, his latest, are anything to go by, he is undoubtedly one of the great artists of the time, and has also been unduly neglected and forgotten in the popular media. I had at least hoped we would hear of some or other Best Actress nomination for Cynthia Nixon, who plays Emily Dickinson in the film, and in doing so gives one of the most intense and insightful biopic performances in recent years; alas, the film has been unjustly sidelined. Yet, as frustrating as this may be for those who worked on it, this suits the story of the determined artist who craved acknowledgement and vindication and never got it while she was alive.
Dickinson published fewer than a dozen poems in her lifetime, some of them anonymous, and most of them in altered form, having been tinkered with by editors. Today, as we have her myriad of poems more or less printed as she put them down, she is rightly recognised as a monumental artist of pure and powerful vision, who found astonishingly original and sharp forms in which to present that vision. She condensed vast ideas and multiplicitous meanings, and concentrated lightning-quick and agile thought into succinct poems, mostly of two to five stanzas, with nursery-rhyme rhythms and an everyday vocabulary. Dickinson never made up words like Shakespeare did, but she totally deposed and reimagined many of the existing ones in use, placing them in her work to mean just what she wanted them to mean, which changed each time she used them. Much is made of their melancholy or mournfulness, yet they are no mere elegies and laments, but colossal constructions of an expanding consciousness. It’s sometimes a little difficult for me to describe them satisfactorily — what are we even to call them when we can’t call them “philosophical” because they make philosophy look small in comparison? Her poetry exhibits the furthest-reaching imagination and staunchest cognitive power of all poets, following Shakespeare. Not only did she confront more than anyone else, she thought her own way through absolutely everything; she reimagined it, she contained it within what she may call her Circumference (one of the tropes she devises to mean something different each time she uses it), and she radically recreated the notion of poetic vision with which to see it.
In short, Dickinson made the cosmos her playground. My sense is that she relied at least in part on her own artistic assertions to see and apprehend the universe and her unique spirit’s place in it. Harold Bloom describes her personal beliefs thus:
A nonconformist in religion from her childhood on, Dickinson is not post-Christian like Emerson and Whitman, but rather a sect of one, like Milton and Blake. Though satiric toward Calvinism, she remained its dissenting daughter. In the United States of the twenty-first century, she would not be considered a Christian at all. Emersonian self-reliance is her fundamental principle, and hers is a private religion of the self. She did not accept Jesus as her redeemer; she did not believe in the Resurrection. And yet Jesus to her was the exemplary sufferer who had triumphed over suffering. What are we to make of her “White Election,” which attired her perpetually in white? She termed herself “Empress of Calvary,” and after the death of [her suitor] Judge Lord, took the Holy Ghost as her husband. Had she not written poems of the greatest aesthetic and intellectual eminence, we might feel that these are the fantasies of a high-born spinster of nineteenth-century Amherst. But the poems dismiss any such feeling:
A word made Flesh is seldom
And trembling partook
Nor then perhaps reported
But have I not mistook
Each one of us has tasted
With ecstasies of stealth
The very food debated
To our specific strength—
A word the breathes distinctly
Has not the power to die
Cohesive as the Spirit
It may expire if He—
“Made Flesh and dwelt among us”
Could condescension be
Like this consent of Language
This loved Philology
It seems appropriate that R.W. Franklin, Dickinson’s definitive editor, cannot date this poem, because it is emblematic of the poet’s stance, early and late. “Philology” here is poetry itself, the reading of which usurps Christian communion. The theological term “condescension” is ironised, since the poetic word has taken the place of “the word made Flesh,” the Christ of the Gospel of John. This poem (with many others) might be called the Gospel of Emily Dickinson.
Davies’s movie — both elliptical and dense, like Dickinson’s poetry — can be thought of as an account of her imagined inner life as much as of her external biographical details. Many important events are elided (such as the romance with the abovementioned Judge Lord, who is mentioned only once in the film, and only in passing), while most of it is filled with imagined scenes of conversations and other intimacies. Even one of the major characters is nearly entirely made up: Vryling Buffum (played by Catherine Bailey) is the name of a woman who really lived, of whom we know nothing other than that she was friend of Emily’s sister, Lavinia (played in the film by Jennifer Ehle). However, in A Quiet Passion, she is Emily’s closest friend, and she, Emily, and Emily’s siblings spend many hours in the Dickinsons’ house or gardens filling their time and freeing their minds with lively conversation. Davies’s concern is not one of narrative or of biographical commentary, but of the artist’s experience of life’s essences, and her endeavour to overcome its difficulties through her creations.
The vitality of experience and its tight bond with art (both its appreciation and its creation) is established in an early scene, when the young Emily (Emma Bell) attends a concert in Boston with her family, where a soprano performs a Bellini aria and Schubert song as part of a larger programme. Important themes are deftly threaded through the dialogue, from the pious distinction between what is seen as sacred (artlessness) and profane (artful showing off) to the place of women as contributors to world history and cultural achievement, but what is always most moving to me (and I’ve watched the scene many times now) is not put into text: Emily is visibly moved by the Bellini and, after hesitating a moment to appreciate the formal ending to the piece, applauds enthusiastically; after the family converses for a minute, the Schubert begins, and Emily is more than moved — she experiences something of the physical exhilaration that attends a spiritual elevation when one encounters a musical work of the apparently superhuman fineness of expression and unsounded reverberations of meaning that Emily finds in Schubert. Davies’s shot lingers on the family in their seats for a good deal longer than would happen in most other movies, and he captures that exhilaration and elevation that Emilly involuntarily undergoes, before the camera pans back down towards the soprano on the stage; but the scene dissolves before it reaches her, and an identical camera movement descends upon Emily, standing in her room in her father’s house, crying out to life and its fullness, and hugging it to herself. Davies has connected her profound experience of art to her embrace of all of life, and begins threading the idea through the movie of Experience itself being sublimated to Art itself, which reaches its full embodiment as we watch the older Emily embroidering later in the film while her poem “I reckon — when I count it all —” is heard in voiceover.
Yet the oncoming flow of ideas does not halt, however; Emily’s father, Edward — played by Keith Carradine — enters and Emily makes two requests of him, to do with writing and distributing her poetry; her experience and her devotion to what she calls “the beauty of truth” drive her to create, and a natural human psychology hopes for approval and affirmation. And soon after Emily’s exultation, in a scene at night in the Dickinson household, there is a long and slow circular tracking shot that surveys the members of the family as they sit before the fire. Dickinson’s poem “The Heart asks Pleasure — first —” is heard as the camera follows Emily’s eyes over her old aunt, young siblings, and ageing parents. Even in her youth, she simultaneously apprehends the richness of life and the enormity of the suffering that accompanies it. She recognises the terror of the meaninglessness and emptiness behind it, and determines that, though her life will be a struggle, it will never be a surrender. When confronted by a pastor with the prospect of Hell, she answers that she’ll “avoid it if I can, endure it if I must.” And even in her apprehension in that early scene before the fire, there is solace in music, as well as pain.
As is obvious from Distant Voices, Still Lives, music is important to Davies, and doubtless Emily’s experiences of and emotional reactions to it reflect something of Davies’s own experiences and reactions. Though music takes a somewhat marginal place in the story and themes of this film, especially compared to the earlier one, there is no diminishing effect on its emotional force, and Davies substitutes a different artistic experience in its place: Instead of a ubiquitous musical score for the film, Nixon reads a number of Dickinson’s poems in voiceover, just like the one mentioned above, starting from the very first scene and continuing right through to the end. The music of Schubert occurs twice in the story of the film, but Dickinson’s poetry is heard outside of it and adds a layer of contemplation to the work and exaltation of its subject; except for the scene when Emily’s nephew is presented to the family for the first time, and one of her poems is actually heard inside the story — she improvises her lyric “I’m Nobody! Who are You?,” and the flash of recognition provides a revelation to her readers as well.
The casting itself of Nixon as Dickinson has turned out to be an inspired choice. I was slightly taken aback to hear her calling herself ugly and repulsive in the film, which is how Emily thinks of herself, but, after a moment, her conviction overwhelms reason and I believed her wholly and empathically. Even when I first saw her in her small role in Amadeus (the biopic of another genius I’ve eulogised on this blog), her explosive emotional energies and soulful intimations stood out among the actors. Her involvement in a creation of Davies’s introduces another oblique dimension: Although the film does not depict any of Dickinson’s possible homoerotic pursuits or preoccupations (though there is the slight subtext, in one scene, of homoerotic interest, and few heterosexual interests are introduced to balance it out), the work of two openly queer artists (and an outspoken queer activist) inheres the work with a queer subtext, especially to viewers, like myself, who are aware of the possibility of Dickinson’s own homosexuality.
An immobile and geometrically rigid camera, often suggests a sort of detachment on the part of the filmmaker — as in the grand irony of Wes Anderson’s films — but Davies, far from being detached in any way, is frank and earnest about the strong emotions his story contains and emits. The openness of his shots gives room for the development and free flow of thought and feeling from one side of the frame to the other, as well as a transparently clear view for us to observe that development and flow. In Distant Voices, Still Lives, there was an additional refraction, if not quite detachment, through which the story was filmed. It seemed caught through the prism of a dream and a memory (aptly, since it was based in large part on Davies’s own childhood experiences). In A Quiet Passion, however, which is set between 100 and 60 years earlier, the action is caught with the intensity of the moment, with the full force of the Here and Now. Despite the abundance of period detail — including a political awareness and concern on the part of the Dickinson family for the great matter of the time: slavery — it is more a film about current experiences than most others being made today. It’s Dickinson’s very eternity, the wonder and terror of living that she boldly took on, that confronts viewers through Davies’s vision.
Note: I couldn’t find A Quiet Passion on any of my usual platforms for viewing; you’ll have to turn to your preferred alternatives to be able to see it in South Africa.
The vitality of experience and its tight bond with art (both its appreciation and its creation) is established in an early scene, when the young Emily (Emma Bell) attends a concert in Boston with her family, where a soprano performs a Bellini aria and Schubert song as part of a larger programme. Important themes are deftly threaded through the dialogue, from the pious distinction between what is seen as sacred (artlessness) and profane (artful showing off) to the place of women as contributors to world history and cultural achievement, but what is always most moving to me (and I’ve watched the scene many times now) is not put into text: Emily is visibly moved by the Bellini and, after hesitating a moment to appreciate the formal ending to the piece, applauds enthusiastically; after the family converses for a minute, the Schubert begins, and Emily is more than moved — she experiences something of the physical exhilaration that attends a spiritual elevation when one encounters a musical work of the apparently superhuman fineness of expression and unsounded reverberations of meaning that Emily finds in Schubert. Davies’s shot lingers on the family in their seats for a good deal longer than would happen in most other movies, and he captures that exhilaration and elevation that Emilly involuntarily undergoes, before the camera pans back down towards the soprano on the stage; but the scene dissolves before it reaches her, and an identical camera movement descends upon Emily, standing in her room in her father’s house, crying out to life and its fullness, and hugging it to herself. Davies has connected her profound experience of art to her embrace of all of life, and begins threading the idea through the movie of Experience itself being sublimated to Art itself, which reaches its full embodiment as we watch the older Emily embroidering later in the film while her poem “I reckon — when I count it all —” is heard in voiceover.
Yet the oncoming flow of ideas does not halt, however; Emily’s father, Edward — played by Keith Carradine — enters and Emily makes two requests of him, to do with writing and distributing her poetry; her experience and her devotion to what she calls “the beauty of truth” drive her to create, and a natural human psychology hopes for approval and affirmation. And soon after Emily’s exultation, in a scene at night in the Dickinson household, there is a long and slow circular tracking shot that surveys the members of the family as they sit before the fire. Dickinson’s poem “The Heart asks Pleasure — first —” is heard as the camera follows Emily’s eyes over her old aunt, young siblings, and ageing parents. Even in her youth, she simultaneously apprehends the richness of life and the enormity of the suffering that accompanies it. She recognises the terror of the meaninglessness and emptiness behind it, and determines that, though her life will be a struggle, it will never be a surrender. When confronted by a pastor with the prospect of Hell, she answers that she’ll “avoid it if I can, endure it if I must.” And even in her apprehension in that early scene before the fire, there is solace in music, as well as pain.
As is obvious from Distant Voices, Still Lives, music is important to Davies, and doubtless Emily’s experiences of and emotional reactions to it reflect something of Davies’s own experiences and reactions. Though music takes a somewhat marginal place in the story and themes of this film, especially compared to the earlier one, there is no diminishing effect on its emotional force, and Davies substitutes a different artistic experience in its place: Instead of a ubiquitous musical score for the film, Nixon reads a number of Dickinson’s poems in voiceover, just like the one mentioned above, starting from the very first scene and continuing right through to the end. The music of Schubert occurs twice in the story of the film, but Dickinson’s poetry is heard outside of it and adds a layer of contemplation to the work and exaltation of its subject; except for the scene when Emily’s nephew is presented to the family for the first time, and one of her poems is actually heard inside the story — she improvises her lyric “I’m Nobody! Who are You?,” and the flash of recognition provides a revelation to her readers as well.
The casting itself of Nixon as Dickinson has turned out to be an inspired choice. I was slightly taken aback to hear her calling herself ugly and repulsive in the film, which is how Emily thinks of herself, but, after a moment, her conviction overwhelms reason and I believed her wholly and empathically. Even when I first saw her in her small role in Amadeus (the biopic of another genius I’ve eulogised on this blog), her explosive emotional energies and soulful intimations stood out among the actors. Her involvement in a creation of Davies’s introduces another oblique dimension: Although the film does not depict any of Dickinson’s possible homoerotic pursuits or preoccupations (though there is the slight subtext, in one scene, of homoerotic interest, and few heterosexual interests are introduced to balance it out), the work of two openly queer artists (and an outspoken queer activist) inheres the work with a queer subtext, especially to viewers, like myself, who are aware of the possibility of Dickinson’s own homosexuality.
An immobile and geometrically rigid camera, often suggests a sort of detachment on the part of the filmmaker — as in the grand irony of Wes Anderson’s films — but Davies, far from being detached in any way, is frank and earnest about the strong emotions his story contains and emits. The openness of his shots gives room for the development and free flow of thought and feeling from one side of the frame to the other, as well as a transparently clear view for us to observe that development and flow. In Distant Voices, Still Lives, there was an additional refraction, if not quite detachment, through which the story was filmed. It seemed caught through the prism of a dream and a memory (aptly, since it was based in large part on Davies’s own childhood experiences). In A Quiet Passion, however, which is set between 100 and 60 years earlier, the action is caught with the intensity of the moment, with the full force of the Here and Now. Despite the abundance of period detail — including a political awareness and concern on the part of the Dickinson family for the great matter of the time: slavery — it is more a film about current experiences than most others being made today. It’s Dickinson’s very eternity, the wonder and terror of living that she boldly took on, that confronts viewers through Davies’s vision.
Note: I couldn’t find A Quiet Passion on any of my usual platforms for viewing; you’ll have to turn to your preferred alternatives to be able to see it in South Africa.
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