An elderly Margaret Thatcher talks to the imagined presence of her recently deceased husband as she struggles to come to terms with his death while scenes from her past life, from girlhood to British prime minister, intervene.
Richard E. Grant
On a rainy London night in 1946, novelist Maurice Bendrix has a chance meeting with Henry Miles, husband of his ex-mistress Sarah, who abruptly ended their affair two years before. ... See full summary »
In 1951, Laura Brown, a pregnant housewife, is planning a party for her husband, but she can't stop reading the novel 'Mrs. Dalloway'. Clarissa Vaughn, a modern woman living in present times is throwing a party for her friend Richard, a famous author dying of AIDS. These two stories are simultaneously linked to the work and life of Virginia Woolf, who's writing the novel mentioned before. Written by
Jonas Reinartz <firstname.lastname@example.org>
In the last scene between Laura and Dan, when Dan is lying on the bed and talking to Laura in the bathroom, we see a pack of cigarettes and a light on the night table. In some shots the lighter is next to the pack and in others it's on top. See more »
Just to let you know I am making the crab thing. Not that I imagine it makes any difference to you.
Of course it makes a difference. I love the crab thing.
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"The Hours" (and I suppose the book on which it is based, although I haven't read it and don't much want to), reduces the vigor and complexity of Woolf's novel to some paean to self-pitying "feelings" about, oh, you know, time, life, all that stuff we're supposed to think is "universal." How about Woolf's meditations on war, gender, and violence in _Mrs. Dalloway_ and the facts (whatever one makes of them) that she was sexually molested as a child, that her suicide took place during another war, and that she and Leonard were on the Gestapo's hit list? Stripping away all the actual material facts of people's lives and times leaves all this relentless emphasis on their supposed "feelings" simply meaningless and manipulative. It's also extremely irritating to have the artist Vanessa Bell reduced to some fluttering mother hen looking with incomprehension at her dotty genius sister Virginia, and to have the real erotic memory at the core of _Mrs Dalloway_, the kiss with Sally, switched to a kiss with Richard, and Sally reduced to the dull spousal role that is Richard's in the novel. But even as a film taken on its own terms this was overdesigned and stupidly pretentious.
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