Hamnet: Stages of Grief

Adapted from the book of the same name, Hamnet seemed an odd choice of follow up for icon, legend, moment Chloé Zhao, whose signature verité style could not possibly find a home in such magical material. And yet it is precisely Zhao, only Zhao, that could deliver the wrecking-ball of the season - a film so wholly devastating, with performances so anchored in promise, destiny, magic, fortune and time, that it needed the grounding touch of near-documentary to anchor it to something worth crying over.

In Hamnet, we care little for the father's profession or name - instead, where he'd come from, where he'd ended up, where he insists he needs to go, and what it costs him – what being in London costs him.

For Agnes, she learns very little - our hero moves very few steps in any direction - instead remaining the anchor to ritual, to returning, to understanding ourselves by understanding our intuition. She's the Id, she's the winds of destiny guiding us, trying to find the knowing, the truth.

Both Paul Mescal and Jessie Buckley put in career-defining performances, but it is their little Hamnet, Jacobi Jupe (Noah's Brother) whose performance is one of the most affecting. Never have I seen a young actor understand the weight of their role more, and provide this much of themselves to the audience and to the absolutely terrifying circumstances.

I am trying not to spoil things - the film is well shot, of course; the performances, as stated, were life-changing, and the story is one I'm sure a lot of you have read.

However, what I want you to know is that this film is not for the weak. This isn't one to watch when you're on the way to being sad, neither one to watch when your grip on happiness is tenuous. Every single element gouges you, in pursuit of reminding you that life is short, love is a dangerous and powerful thing, and consequences come for us all.

This may be Best Picture.