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Occasionally, ignorance can be advantageous—as occurred last week, when I viewed Lynne Ramsay’s “Die My Love” without realizing it was rooted in a book. Throughout the film, I struggled with the impression that it withheld a thorough inner realm from its main character, Grace (portrayed by Jennifer Lawrence). Subsequently, in this publication, I perused my colleague Jia Tolentino’s Lawrence profile, which commences with a reference to the source novel, authored by the Argentinean writer Ariana Harwicz. That volume, cited in the article, is a first-person account, profoundly intimate and passionately fervent. Upon reading those extracted phrases, I felt as though I glimpsed a superior film concealed within the one I had actually seen, and I surmised that the void in the latter indicated a key flaw in its conversion.
I’d label “Die My Love” misguided, were it not concentrated on Grace’s emotional battles during the initial months following childbirth. As it starts, Grace and her partner, Jackson (Robert Pattinson), reach their new residence, a dilapidated structure situated in his hometown, which carries substantial emotional weight: it previously was occupied by his uncle Frank, who had lately committed suicide. Inside the dwelling, which is bare except for dead foliage and other clutter, Jackson proclaims, “It’s not New York, but it’s ours,” pointing toward an office area where Grace can engage in her writing. The overt exposition is soon amplified by Grace’s similarly explanatory inquiry to Jackson about his uncle’s demise—and Jackson’s prolonged quiet in place of a response. The result is a totally manufactured marital instance contrived solely to fuel the film’s antiquated trickery.
It’s simply one among many silences that suffocate the characters. The film, penned by Ramsay and the dramatists Enda Walsh and Alice Birch, depicts Grace expecting a child upon the duo’s arrival at the old house. The baby (whose name, Harry, remains unmentioned until late in the picture) materializes without warning, a few scenes in. By that juncture, still fairly early on, Grace’s potent vitality—affixed to the display as if on an index card via a convulsive dance segment within the cleaned-up cooking area—already displays indications of disarray and peril. Upon Harry’s introduction, Grace is seen creeping through tall grass near the residence, a substantial knife grasped in her hand, which she maintains as she approaches the porch and admires the infant. (Do not fear.) Harry’s arrival has barely transformed Jackson’s lifestyle, which is largely centrifugal: he heads to his employment (the nature of his occupation remains unclear), and his job necessitates extended hours and a distant commute from the home—while Grace’s existence now centers on the baby, and, amidst these shifts, her composure, perhaps even her sanity, disintegrates.
Grace is described as a writer, yet the film never reveals what she is composing or has composed, whether she has been published, if she possesses a profession or merely an aspiration. Her literary ardor, or lack thereof (as Tolentino observes, the couple’s residence contains no books), remains obscure. Irrespective, whatever her writing might once have entailed, she is not currently engaged in it. She is socially isolated—it’s uncertain whether the pair previously dwelled in New York or whether it was nearby or even a fantasy—without individual acquaintances, and her sparse interaction with Jackson’s longstanding acquaintances proves disastrous. Jackson’s mother, Pam (Sissy Spacek), is sympathetic and well-meaning, yet she aggravates Grace with her rustic counsel. Grace does connect with Jackson’s father, Harry (Nick Nolte), but he is senile and passes away sometime near the baby’s birth.
Motherhood is rendering Grace wretched. Following nursing Harry, she roams the dwelling with one breast exposed, dripping milk—and, upon entering her workspace, spilling black ink onto paper before dribbling milk on top, forming a starry pattern that Ramsay accentuates with a cut to the actual starry expanse as perceived by Jackson through his telescope. Somewhat obvious, especially when he ponders the universe and its alternatives, leading Grace to question, “What are we doing in the other universe . . . do we fuck?” As the postnatal months advance, Grace voices her sexual dissatisfaction, providing Jackson with a chronology of abstinence—and demanding that he engage in intercourse with her immediately, in the vehicle’s front seating, with the infant secured in the rear. (It does not proceed favorably.) She envisions a motorcyclist (LaKeith Stanfield) who repeatedly passes by the house—and he could be a figment of her imagination, or at least a segment of their interaction may be fabricated (perhaps the segment where she instructs him to cut himself).
Meanwhile, Jackson is unveiled to be something less than an ideal spouse. He acquires a canine without prior discussion; he maintains a stash of condoms in his glove compartment yet fails to maintain a coherent explanation about them; he unsympathetically anticipates Grace to maintain the household while he is employed; he angrily accuses her of embarrassing him before his companions. The strained connection, along with other burdens in her existence—motherhood, solitude, unsatisfied yearning, artistic disappointment, and potential undiagnosed mental illness—pushes her past her limits. She converses with a stuffed animal, licks a windowpane, settles within an open refrigerator, spits beer onto the surface. She leaves the dwelling untidy, permitting dishes and laundry to accumulate, shopping only for instant macaroni and cheese. She needlessly offends a youthful cashier and instigates a disturbance at a gathering. She propels herself through a glass door (cutting her visage and extremities, necessitating a hospital visit) and obliterates a bathroom entirely, even its fittings. She strikes her head against a reflective surface and is admitted into a mental-health institution. The reason remains ambiguous: she consults with a therapist, who elicits her narrative of being orphaned during childhood and diagnoses her apprehension of abandonment. But is she given a diagnosis—of postpartum depression, for instance, or even madness? Is medication administered? The film provides no indication.
Instead, Ramsay underscores the physical intensity of Grace’s suffering. The film omits not only details of her writing life, her routine activities or inactivity, Jackson’s profession, Grace’s associations outside the household, and the medical particulars of her self-harming acts. During the party scene with Jackson’s associates, Grace appears with bandaged fingers—a clear consequence of her fierce encounter with the bathroom—whereas there is no immediate result of that frantic destruction, no scene of her and Jackson more calmly tending to her injuries, no sense of their subsequent dialogue. After Grace propels herself through a glass entryway—less a genuine urge than a sudden surprise for viewers—she is next seen in the medical center, without any intervening actions by Jackson to halt the bleeding, summon medical aid, escort her to the hospital unaided, observe as she is wheeled into the treatment area, or confer with a physician. Ramsay’s portrayal of aggression is restricted, confined, and hackneyed, stuck at the trivial level of jump scares and widened-eyed fright, lacking any of the resounding chill of disorderly aftermaths, of practicality’s delicate composure when confronted with discomfort and jeopardy. There’s no perception of what it is like to contemplate the occurrence even as the impairments to physique and psyche remain unassessed and unaddressed. Pursuing intense physicality, Ramsay yields mere sensationalism.
Conversely, the film’s mosaic-esque blending of timelines represents its most fulfilling and accomplished element. It might be unclear whether flashbacks, such as the couple’s turbulent wedding gathering and their passionate and boisterous courtship, constitute Grace’s recollections, or, indeed, whether some scenes (like those featuring the motorcyclist) depict her actual exploits or merely her fantasies. Nevertheless, this unfettered arrangement of time at least establishes a framework for subjectivity, suggesting a mental realm underpinning the action. Whether this intricate structure was conceived in the screenplay or during editing (the editor being Toni Froschhammer), it proves substantially more absorbing than the individual components it juxtaposes.
What is consistently absent, through this repression of practical considerations in lieu of shocks and sensations, is imagination. Ramsay submerges her narrative within the exceptional and overlooks the dramatic potential inherent in the mundane aspects of her characters’ lives. Similarly, there exists no indication of the film’s temporal setting (vehicles appear modern, yet nobody utilizes smartphones for purposes beyond communication) or geographical locale (I observed a vehicle displaying a Montana license). There is never an intimation of events transpiring in the broader world or the characters’ perspectives on them. The topic of money is virtually absent: Jackson introduces a new vehicle, and when Grace inquires about their financial capacity, he responds, “Don’t concern yourself.” (She never previously had such concerns.) Lacking substantive dialogue or observational inquisitiveness, the film’s scenes conclude swiftly, lingering just sufficiently to convey information, and only enough information to mark off a plot element or an overt characteristic.
As an analysis of the postnatal hazards to a woman’s psychological well-being, “Die My Love” mishandles the subject matter—it disregards medical particulars and the forms and prospects of treatment. The film both amplifies those risks and relegates them to a wider, social-existential perspective on women’s discontent and subjugation in marriage. For clarification, Ramsay stated soon following the film’s Cannes debut in May, “this entire postpartum topic is just nonsense” and added, “It’s about a relationship dissolving, it’s about affection dissolving, and intimacy dissolving following the birth of a child. And it’s additionally about a creative impediment.” Filmmakers possess authority over their objectives, not their achievements, and the film manifests as encompassing far more than she intended—even as it accomplishes too little with its multitude of subjects.
Absent substantially crafted characters, the actors assume their place; rather than interpreting or embodying the personas of “Die My Love,” the performers are compelled to simulate them. Ramsay places the laboring obligation onto the cast—particularly Lawrence, who exerts herself ardently yet receives scant material—both in script content and in consistent screen presence to develop scenes beyond their mere informational value. Her portrayal demonstrates deep commitment, yet each scene functions as a self-contained exercise, adrift in abstraction, energized solely through her volition. The outcome is a strained performance, not due to Lawrence’s lack of immediacy or spontaneity—conversely—but because the text and guidance afford her limited stimuli. Her creative mechanism, left unengaged, spins erratically, resulting in a spectacle of heightened exertion supplanting drama.
As I watched the movie, I waited for the extremities of Grace’s suffering and of Jackson’s detachment to materialize. I was certain that the infant would confront some form of danger, that the suitability of the couple’s parenting would be tested by the consequences of their emotional conflicts. But alas: the infant—even amid violence, recklessness, self-absorption, and disarray—remains the implausible center of tranquility. This struck me as a defiance of the drama’s natural progression and, predominantly, as a commercial determination, premised on the premise that general audiences for a movie featuring megastars would forfeit all empathy for characters endangering their offspring. It happens that, through ignorance, I had discovered a clue, and upon perusing Tolentino’s profile of Lawrence, I uncovered an answer: “In the book, the protagonist is detached from her child, almost to the point of abuse, but Lawrence and Pattinson found they couldn’t abide that aspect of the story.” I would have valued the opportunity to hear the actors’ discussions with Ramsay regarding this aspect.
It holds minimal importance whether a director faithfully adapts a literary origin, in language or essence—or modifies it substantially. A novel is merely unprocessed material, no less than and no different from any other facet of experience, and it warrants and merits no less of a liberated approach. Directors’ viewpoints on their adapted works parallel their perspectives on their lives and their period—equally individual, equally insightful. The hollowness of “Die My Love” signifies not a failure in adaptation but rather in observation; the lacking element constitutes not a sense of drama but rather a sense of existence. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
