REVIEW: Hamnet

Actions often speak louder than words, and very few filmmakers understand that old cinematic rule — show, don’t tell — as instinctively as Chloé Zhao. It’s something she’s proven before, but here she applies it with devastating precision. This is a film that communicates as much through silence, body language, and negative space as it does through dialogue, and Zhao’s greatest strength lies in how she draws that emotion out of her actors.

Jessie Buckley has always had it. I’ve been a fan ever since Wild Rose, and even in projects where the film itself doesn’t quite work — or when she only has a handful of scenes — she somehow manages to leave a lasting impression. But what she does here is on a completely different level. It’s no surprise she’s emerged as a frontrunner this awards season, because this is the kind of performance people remember for years.

They say the eyes are a window to the soul, but Buckley uses her entire body as an emotional instrument. Especially in the film’s second half, when tragedy strikes, you can feel the grief settling into her bones. There’s a sense of something permanently breaking inside her — a life she thought she had slipping away in an instant. What’s remarkable is that Zhao never pushes this into melodrama. There are no big monologues or explosive emotional releases. Instead, she leans into restraint, silence, and stillness, allowing the audience to sit with the pain as it slowly takes shape. Grief here isn’t loud — it’s consuming.

The supporting performances are excellent, even if they risk being overshadowed by Buckley’s work. Paul Mescal continues to master the art of doing a lot with very little. His performance is incredibly understated, which makes moments of connection — like the quiet scene where he holds Jesse as she unravels — hit even harder. Jacobi Jupe, as the title character, brings warmth, joy, and a lightness that instantly draws you in. That sense of innocence is crucial, because it makes the emotional blow land with far greater force. Zhao’s handling of his death is especially striking, filmed in a dreamlike, almost tender way that feels both surreal and deeply human.

From a technical standpoint, the film is beautifully crafted. Zhao’s naturalistic cinematography gives certain scenes — particularly those set in open fields — an almost magical quality. The score by Max Richter is another standout. There’s a particularly powerful use of one of his most recognizable pieces that elevates an already emotional scene, but overall the music remains subtle, never overpowering the story.

In the end, Zhao has delivered one of the most affecting cinematic explorations of grief in recent years. Anchored by extraordinary performances, thoughtful writing, and assured direction, it’s a film that may move slowly at first — and yes, some viewers may drift — but for those willing to stay with it, the emotional payoff is profound. This is the kind of film that quietly lingers long after the credits roll.