THE HOURS (2002) picked me apart
In Sussex, England — in 1941, to be exact — a letter from Virginia Woolf was written to her husband before she filled her coat pockets with rocks to bring certain weights to herself. She then drags her feet to the middle of the river and let the water hauls her into the depth of the river’s current. This is the opening scene from The Hours, a film — adapted from a novel with the same title — that settles dearly in my mind since the first time I watched it in 2015; a year in which an abundance of things had happened to me. So in retrospect, I chose to watch this film in which at the end, it resulted in overwhelming types of emotions exuding out of me.
This is a story about women, first and foremost — where in this film revolves around three generations of women; Nicole Kidman portraying the author Woolf herself, in the middle of writing Mrs. Dalloway in 1923; Julianne Moore as Laura Brown, a 1950s housewife reading the book; and Meryl Streep as Clarissa Vaughan, a book editor living in the 2000s, living the book. The first seven minutes of the film gives each shot of these three women, waking up from their sleep and going on about their lives not knowing (or maybe they do), that feeling of trepidation is inevitable.
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