The Deep Blue Sea, or: How subtlety can both enhance and hinder a tale of doomed love

The Deep Blue Sea (2011)

Directed by Terence Davies

***SPOILERS***

Directors and screenwriters in the film industry could learn to be subtler in their filmmaking methods. As seen in both Footnote and Starry Starry Night, the director often inserts him or herself when the characters should be enforcing the drama, while a screenplay can all too often lead a character into candidly stating his or her emotions. And then, as seen in The Deep Blue Sea, sometimes a filmmaker can be too subtle. It’s wonderful to witness a director so intent on creating an atmosphere to accompany the main character’s mindset, which director Terence Davies does so subtlely that it requires careful concentration to absorb. He constructed a beautiful tale about doomed love and its relentless tentacles that pull its paramours deeper and deeper into melancholy. From lighting to mood swings to symmetrical framing, Davies does just about everything in his power to recreate the famous play written by Terence Rattigan. Viewers will undoubtedly be turned off by Davies’ approach, which abandons pure and raw emotion, thus alienating the crowd in the most apparent ways. And while there’s a strange mix between delicacy and bluntness, the subtly that dissects the core relationship of the film is so finely constructed that it seems a shame to count out Davies’ screenplay based on pure emotional value.

While the erratic opening scene can be misleading, it actually keeps in line with the film’s continous style—not to be energetic and curt, but to keep in line with Hester’s (Rachel Weisz) mindset. The fervency in which Hester recounts the past few months of her life during a neurotic state indicates the rush of new love. The flashing images are quick and succinct, each catching the viewer up to the precise minute the film truly begins, but even those rushed scenes capture Davies’ astute attention to detail and the discipline in constructing every single moment. Hester's only significant memory of her husband William (Simon Russell Beale) occurs in their home library, where William looks upon Hester with an approving smile, before it slowly furls into a state of indifference. Hester cries silently to herself, and immediately this moment is followed with Freddie (Tom Hiddleston) standing in the sunlight, radiating before her eyes. While William was shrouded in the low gloom of a fire, grays and dark yellows, Freddie flourishes in the endless green field accompanying him. The camera then depicts them as lovers in a ceiling fan view, circling their pressed naked bodies. This circling shot transitions into itself, featuring them both in clothing, napping the day away, and then finally a shot of Hester sleeping alone. It all culminates in a distant voice calling Hester’s name, just before she’s jolted awake by a local doctor, reiterating how lucky she is that her suicide was unsuccessful.

So if the manic opening scene was meant to depict a fleeting sexual desire, the rest of the film’s dull pace is meant to reflect Hester’s inability to escape doomed love. With chopped filmmaking out the window, Davies will now choose to bask in situations, allowing the staleness to consume Hester. From endless and aimless arguments between Hester and Freddie to strenuous tea-pouring sessions with William’s mother, the viewer wallows in the stagnancy alongside Hester. The strain of her married life pushes her towards Freddie, but the crippling manner of such a cursed relationship causes her to reminisce about William. These two dynamics tug away at Hester from different directions, as both William’s dignified presence and Freddie’s paralyzing personality alternate between scenes with Hester. She’s happy around William, if not surer of herself, but the divine and unexplainable attraction to Freddie represents true love—even if it’s seeping her of life.

And with this narrative tug of war, Davies introduces an interesting attribute of symmetry. Hester is seemingly searching for her significant other, but really, she’s searching for her place in the world. The first shot of Freddie in the sunlight places him in the mid-right position of the frame, leaving a spot for the woman that will come to accompany him throughout the film. This sort of mise-en-scène play on positioning accurately reflects the moments Hester feels safe and the moments she feels life slipping away. For Freddie is life and death to her, and when they aren’t elegantly framed in the middle of the forefront, Freddie’s absence indicates her eventual path towards self-destruction, culminating in the final drifting scene where she contemplates suicide. In the museum, Freddie admiringly looks upon a painting with Hester. Facing the audience, they’re almost posing for a portrait to remember this small sliver of happiness amidst a strenuous voyage. But Freddie’s ignorance of art leads to an argument, leading Freddie out of the frame, even navigating to further parts of the room. Not once are the two placed in the center of the frame, always accompanying the spot where their lover previously stood. When they fight outside the bar, Freddie turns away, placing Hester in the foreground. When the camera transitions, the pained expression on Hester’s face accompanies her new position, which physically takes Freddie away from her in both camera and scope.

The combination of such attentive filmmaking and her tugging relationship between William and Freddie is key in understanding Hester current predicament. The true question still remains, however: where’s the emotion? Outside of fiery arguments between Hester and Freddie, the emotion is merely hinted at. It keeps in line with Davies’ unobtrusive approach in depicting the mood, but it doesn’t dissect Hester as an individual. The major flaw of the film is that we don’t have an accurate portrait of Hester before her adulterous fling. She’s incredibly overwhelmed by fresh love, but with only disapproving looks from her husband as indicators of a loveless marriage, what connection can be made between past Hester and present Hester? This sidestep of such an important piece of information undercuts the melancholy surrounding Hester, which exists fervently because of Weisz’s piercing performance and Davies’ watchful eye, but remains empty for its lack of relevance and counterbalance.

Signifying both the film’s greatest strength and flaw in a single scene, we witness a flashback to Hester standing in a railway station. The tunnel is flooded with peons, army recruiters and war propaganda, all existing amidst a bystander’s penetrating solemn tune. The shot gracefully sidles its way across the tracks until it finally reaches Hester and William. In the face of losing Freddie as a lover, this tragic memory captures exactly how she felt around William. There was no sexual chemistry or lustful desire, but a state of complacency and bliss that made Hester feel safe during a nation’s most trying hours. But after spending so much time depicting her relationship with Freddie, this scene does very little to balance Hester’s alternating personalities. While it’s entirely believable that Hester briskly escaped into William’s arms because he made her feel safe, her impulsiveness remains in question. To remedy such a dilemma, Davies’ pens a line for Freddie, who says, “She marries the first man who asks her—falls for the first man who gives her the eye.” In the midst of a film that does everything to subtly relate Hester’s state of mind, these moments of forthrightness reflect a lazy approach towards dissecting Hester, while also contradicting the nature of the film.

But you can’t blame Davies for existing in the moment. The subtle alludes to Hester’s past still reflect her current state of mind, which is powerful in and of itself, especially with Weisz at the center of attention. Perhaps Davies’ stubborn step-by-step storytelling is both his bane and his enabler. It allows his deft standoffish style to utilize the environment and its grasp over the characters. But it also limits him in scope, only able to insinuate Hester’s past and never bring it to life. Such a difference can be seen between this and Certified Copy, where Elle’s (Juliette Binoche) past is never candidly related, but brought to the forefront to balance her current situation. It’s worked into conversations organically through mannerisms and relevant topics, never scattershot or misplaced in its approach. But The Deep Blue Sea is its own beast, attempting to make a mature film about fleeting love and the pain associated with it—of which it succeeds admirably. There's nothing subtle about that.