Is it brilliance or blatant manipulation? The much-buzzed-about Shakespeare drama Hamnet, starring Paul Mescal and Jessie Buckley, has divided audiences and critics alike. It's visually stunning and emotionally charged, but some say it crosses the line—accused of being 'exploitative' in its pursuit of tears, pushing sentiment with almost surgical precision. But here’s where it gets controversial: can a film still be considered 'great' if it manipulates our emotions too deliberately?
There’s little debate that Hamnet is one of this year’s cinematic front-runners. Riding high on glowing reviews and early Oscar predictions, it’s virtually guaranteed a spot on countless 'Best of 2025' lists. And honestly? That’s no surprise. The film adapts Maggie O’Farrell’s adored and lyrical novel—one often described as one of the 21st century’s literary triumphs. Behind the camera, Oscar-winning filmmaker Chloé Zhao teams up with O’Farrell herself as co-writer, an exciting collaboration given Zhao’s mastery of emotional storytelling in Nomadland. In front of the lens, two of Ireland’s brightest stars—Buckley and Mescal—bring Shakespearean tragedy to life. Oh, and let’s not forget the ultimate creative presence shadowing it all: William Shakespeare himself. The story’s premise is tantalizing—a fictional imagining that the death of Shakespeare’s young son, Hamnet, inspired his magnum opus, Hamlet. In Elizabethan times, a text reminds us, 'Hamnet' and 'Hamlet' were essentially interchangeable.
But the million-pound question remains: does the film actually live up to its pedigree? For many viewers, yes—it’s powerful and affecting. Yet others argue that Zhao and O’Farrell have stripped away nearly everything that made the novel so enchanting: its time-bending structure, vivid inner monologues, and poetic attention to small, sensory details. What’s left, critics claim, feels no more profound than any other lavish period drama with corsets and candlelight.
From the opening scenes, it’s evident that Hamnet won’t be a masterclass in subtlety. Its tone leans closer to the romantic flamboyance of Shakespeare in Love than to introspective tragedy. Buckley’s Agnes Hathaway (Shakespeare’s wife, though her family calls her Agnes) is a farmer’s daughter surrounded by whispers that her late mother was a forest witch—a rumor she neither denies nor dispels. She roams the woods, hawk in tow, gathering herbs and fungi for her mystical concoctions. And to really underline her bond with nature, Zhao includes that now-familiar shot: the camera gazing up through a halo of trembling tree branches toward the sky. Meanwhile, Mescal’s Will Shakespeare scribbles away at early drafts of Romeo and Juliet in his attic workshop. The message is clear from the start—this film wears its symbolism proudly, perhaps a little too proudly.
Buckley’s performance is, as ever, a force of nature. Her Agnes is fierce, intuitive, and more honest than any soul around her—traits reminiscent of Buckley’s past roles. Mescal’s Shakespeare, shy and restless, is instantly captivated. Their courtship unfolds warmly, even poetically, yet never feels entirely authentic. Soon enough, they’re married and raising three children: their daughter Susanna and the inseparable twins, Hamnet (played by Jacobi Jupe) and Judith (Olivia Lynes). Strangely, given the film’s thematic emphasis on twinhood, the young actors look nothing alike—a distracting detail in a story so invested in mirroring and duality.
Stratford-upon-Avon, their home, feels oddly empty—a postcard-perfect village almost devoid of other people or life beyond the Shakespeare household. Dialogue scenes are peppered with lines lifted from Shakespeare’s own plays, as if to wink knowingly at the audience, though such moments often feel too forced to be natural. In several exchanges, characters spell out information they should already know, breaking immersion for attentive viewers. Even the subplot involving Will’s overbearing father feels overly familiar; at one point, Mescal’s Shakespeare physically confronts him in a moment that uncannily echoes the actor’s past explosive turns—especially his role in Normal People.
So, here’s the debate worth having: Hamnet is beautifully crafted, emotionally resonant, and performed with passion—but does its heavy-handed approach undermine its emotional truth? Has it earned our tears, or merely engineered them? Do we admire films that make us cry, or do we secretly resent being manipulated into doing so? Let’s hear it—does Hamnet move you, or does it go too far in trying to make sure that it does?
