Literary Love Affairs

Hemingway & Gellhorn

Mary Shelley

Greetings, my lovers, haters, and unfeeling, apathetic zombies, I hope you’re doing alright. It’s above 80 degrees in November in Texas, which, I suppose shouldn’t be that surprising, but it is, nevertheless, depressing!! Autumn isn’t the slow, serene season it normally is for this chilly Scorpio, as my job and my life have been hectic beyond the normal rush hour traffic and tiredness woes. We had to put down my 15-year old cat and bittersweet companion, Trilby, this week, so if my words seem half-hearted or served with only a small slice of enthusiastic criticism tonight, this is why. Nothing can prepare you for the loss of a beloved creature, not even the tell tale signs that tease the end, not even my ever-present awareness and anxiety of death, not even the month or so of her suffering that led to this finality. I am trying my best to say something eloquent about my devastation, to provide the Timothée-Chalamet-staring-into-the-fireplace equivalent of an expression of acceptance, but I fear no words can sum up my love and my grief for my fallen familiar. Nothing clever or cute or unique can be mustered, not today at least, so for now, allow me to partake in one of my favorite distractions—talking about movies. Given the torturous push and pull of life and death I’ve been experiencing lately, I wanted to shine a light on some stories about tortured writers who, in spite of or because of their troubles, produced some of the most lovely and legendary writing to ever be published. As a writer, I am narcissistically obsessed with other writers—particularly those who had sexy, romantic, tumultuous affairs on the prickly paths to their success. I have dipped a toe into biopics surrounding complex writers and scholars and the tangled webs they wove—specifically Carl Jung and Sigmund Freud, and Anaïs Nin and Henry and June Miller—and I am so endlessly fascinated by these messy, moody, immensely talented and complicated people that I had to track down more of these stories. And thankfully, there is no shortage of stories surrounding insane and inspired writers. Tonight’s two films are focused on two different and distinct feminist women writers who shaped their generation(s), and the insecure, womanizing, mildly-talented male writers who got in their way(s.)

Up first is a film I’ve been wanting to see for awhile, even though I consider one of the subjects at the film’s center to be one of the most overrated American writers of all time—this is Philip Kaufman’s 2012 HBO TV movie Hemingway & Gellhorn. Before it became corrupted and corroded by their new overlord David “the most-hated man in media after Weinstein” Zaslav, HBO produced countless glossy and iconic television movies that I would watch over and over again—Grey Gardens and Behind the Candelabra come to mind. I’m not sure why HBO suddenly stopped and became synonymous with strictly prestige TV, but Hemingway & Gellhorn perfectly encapsulates the once-inspiring and not-oversaturated media produced by this network at this time. The film opens on a deep-voiced Nicole Kidman in old-lady-drag and a still-decent wig, looking directly into the camera as she says, “I was probably the worst bed partner of five continents. I have always felt more at home in the most difficult places, but love? I’m a war correspondent.” Kidman stars as Martha Gellhorn—one of the greatest journalists and war correspondents of the 20th century—and here she is going to recount the tale of how she met Ernest Hemingway—one of the most dreaded authors to be read in English classes everywhere. Here, Ernest Hemingway is played by Clive Owen—who can still get it, even in this shlubby unlikable persona—although James Gandolfini was originally cast, and that would’ve made far more sense. The two met by chance in 1936, in a bar in Key West, Florida, where a sloppy, surly, covered-in-fish-blood Hemingway would regale fellow drunkards of his excellent catches of the day. Gellhorn immediately impresses the unfazed but clearly bothered Hemingway with her expert grasp of the Italian language, her relationship to Eleanor Roosevelt, and her wildly successful short stories surrounding the wreckage of The Great Depression titled The Trouble I’ve Seen. Gellhorn and Hemingway, who are only alike in their pursuits of passion and truth, hit it off like a house on fire, the only issue is that Hemingway is already married, and he has plans to join a group of artists and revolutionaries on an expedition to Spain, to report on the Spanish Civil War. Gellhorn decides to join this group of radicals, become fully enmeshed in the action of warfare, and turn herself into a proper war correspondent in the process. What she doesn’t plan on, though, is falling in love with the brutish and beguiling Ernest Hemingway, and forming a situationship that would nearly tear apart both of their lives while making them both even more famous and scandalous. Nicole Kidman and Clive Owen are the kind of performers who could have chemistry with anyone, and watching their diabolical love affair blossom was the best part of this frenetic and flawed film. The ever-evolving, ever-terrifying, steadily-spreading waves of fascism are in the background of this entire story, as Gellhorn makes it her mission to track the progress of the propagandizing powers that be, while Hemingway just kinda shakes his head in half-assed mutual disagreement of Nazism. The only tangible, memorable moments of action or emotion that Hemingway displays in between drags of his cigars and gulps of his rum are when Gellhorn leaves their trysted bliss to go write in the trenches of war. He eventually even sabotages her—stealing her job at Collier’s Magazine to go report on the beaches of Normandy so that she cannot. But Gellhorn, ever the determined journalist and empathetic writer, snuck onto a medical ship in disguise as a nurse, and ended up covering this historic moment anyway. Ernest Hemingway is not the first egotistical, erratic, sexist, insecure male writer who was intimidated by his female counterparts, and he certainly isn’t the last, but I’m glad this film didn’t shy away from portraying this highly-revered bastion of masculinity as the lil bitch that he really was at heart. Perhaps one could come away from this film thinking that Gellhorn and Hemingway were equally problematic and blinded by their dangerous ambition(s), but my takeaway is that we, as a once-literate society, have been propping up and praising the wrong American writer within this dynamic. Martha Gellhorn is one of the most fascinating and important historical figures I’ve barely heard of, having covered nearly every major war, battle, and instance of government corruption in her illustrious 60-year career. To each their own, but I am far more intrigued by the blood, sweat, and hard-earned truths Gellhorn captured on the page than I am by Hemingway’s mumbling, meandering sadboy musings on life. I’m so glad Gellhorn was more of the focus here, and that Hemingway was rightfully shown as a sloppy, self-aggrandizing muse to Gellhorn—rather than the other way around. That being said, this movie that is full of shoot-outs and secrets and betrayals and a sex scene where Hemingway and Gellhorn literally have sex as the building they’re in crumbles around them, found a way to draaaaaag through the majority of it. It’s about as mid of a movie as they come: with enthralling characters, captivating settings, and famous people abound (including David Strathairn, Rodrigo Santoro, Molly Parker, Parker Posey, Tony Shaloub, Robert Duvall, Joan Chen, Mark Pellegrino, and Metallica’s own Lars Ulrich.) But, as is often the case, something got lost in the biopic procedural, some shine was dulled by a need to satisfy every kind of viewer with as much info as possible, in as palatable and sexy of a package they could muster. Given that I am a nerd who loves history and a compelling aesthetic, I felt like these two things were not balanced, but in competition with one another in Hemingway & Gellhorn. This imbalance was difficult to process, especially because, on paper, I loved everything about this film.

The exact same thing could be said for tonight’s next movie—one that I was even more excited to view due to my recently-reanimated love for the story of Frankenstein, this is Haifaa Al-Mansour’s 2017 film Mary Shelley. My love and fascination with the mother of science fiction has only blossomed the more that I learn about her, and I am shocked at the lack of media mythos surrounding this incredibly important gothic horror founder—so I was happy to have discovered at least one film that at least attempted to highlight the tragic and terrific life of Mary Shelley. Similarly to Hemingway & Gellhorn, Mary Shelley chooses to focus its story on this figure’s relationship to the man who almost brought upon her downfall, which is merely one part of this interesting person’s life, but I digress. Elle Fanning stars as Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin—the nepo baby of two brilliant writers, who sits somewhat uncomfortably in their impressive, daunting shadows. Mary enjoys reading and writing at her mother’s grave, but only her little brother and stepsister know of the ghost stories she is enchanted by—her stepmom would never approve (Disney much?) When Mary’s stepmom does discover the content of her amusement, she essentially tells Mary’s father that she cannot be around her, so Mary is shipped off to Scotland for further education and fresher air. It’s here that the film tells us she meets her future husband, the poet Percy Shelley (Douglas Booth), though I’m not sure if this timeline is entirely accurate. Mary and Percy immediately pique each other’s interests, and their chemistry is electric when they talk about poetry, prose, and the creative capabilities of the macabre. Mary gets cockblocked though, when she receives word that her stepsister Claire is dying, and she rushes back to London. Turns out she wasn’t really dying, she was only desperate for Mary’s entertainment and company—which greatly annoys Mary until Percy shows up at their door. Again, I’m not sure if every detail of this is accurate, but I know it is true when Mary, Percy, and Claire(/their own Dupree) all flee town and live as regency-era bohemians. Mary falls for Percy hard, even though he abandoned his wife and kid, and seems toxically despondent when his writing is not considerably praised. The two eventually get married, have a kid (perhaps not in that order), and lose that kid as they run from creditors—all before Mary turns 18, mind you. The film takes far too long to get to the Summer of 1816, when this trio finds their way to Lord Byron’s large estate, and one bored, rainy night, Byron proposes that they all come up with their own scary story. It is on this night that Mary (now) Shelley conceived the idea of Frankenstein—soon putting it in writing, being rejected by publishers until she submitted it anonymously, and blowing the minds of every generation in every century to come. Though her life was marked by tragedy after tragedy, Mary Shelley lived a fascinating life and created an entire genre out of her grief, despair, and radical realism. I wish this film had made her more thrilling to observe and learn about, and I can’t really pinpoint any particular flaw. Elle Fanning was superb, Douglas Booth was decently pathetic, and many of the highest and lowest points of this legend’s life are technically touched upon. The complete package just wasn’t as fun or intriguing as the straight-up facts of Mary Shelley’s life. It felt like a gothic YA story but with not enough tenderness or salaciousness. It felt like another overstuffed and undercooked biopic, in a style that seemed to desire the effortless memorability of a Joe Wright film. I’m really sad to report that it just didn’t all come together. Part of me wishes that this film had swung really big, and covered all of the unfounded, scurrilous rumors of Mary Shelley’s life—such as her losing her virginity atop her mother’s grave, just as one example. But there is no teeth to this movie, nor is there some sort of pious dedication to getting every detail correct, so I struggle to understand why this project happened at all. If you’re looking for a thorough, enthralling recounting of Mary Shelley’s life, and the events that led to her writing Frankenstein, I highly recommend you listen to this episode of the podcast After Dark, because this figure’s life deserves more than just a muted, bleakly-toned adaptation. Well that’s all the time and emotional energy I have this week, thank you for putting up with my melodramatic melancholy, my sweet readers. Until next time, give your furry friends a kiss and say a blessing to Mary Shelley—the patron saint of weird emo girls. Ta ta for now! 😽