Oscar 2026: Hamnet and the Trauma of Life

William Shakespeare is one of the most important figures in Western drama. To speak of him is to tread on sacred ground, surrounded by centuries of reverence, mandatory citations, and an aura of incontestable genius. Hamnet is bold precisely because it is not interested in that altar. The film shifts the focus, de-escalates the myth, and chooses to look where almost no one else does: at the loss, the silence, and primarily at Agnes, the wife historically pushed to the sidelines of the narrative.

By giving Agnes the spotlight, the film does not just revisit the origin of Hamlet; it questions the very idea of authorship, genius, and legacy. Here, trauma precedes the work. Life comes before the classic, and that is not always comfortable.

Directed by Academy Award winner Chloé Zhao (Nomadland) and written by Zhao in collaboration with Maggie O’Farrell, author of the eponymous novel, Hamnet arrives in theaters as one of the most solid contenders of the 2026 awards season.

Well positioned in the Oscar race, the film has already racked up significant awards and nominations at the BAFTAs, Critics Choice Awards, and Golden Globes, winning Best Picture at the latter two. While it is not the absolute leader in total nominations, it is that persistent competitor that keeps gaining ground, collecting trophies, and making the frontrunners uneasy.

Fortunately, cinema is not sustained by statues alone. Let us get to the heart of it.

One of the most interesting and least romanticized points Hamnet recovers is the historical confusion surrounding the name itself. Hamnet and Hamlet were phonetically interchangeable in Elizabethan English, a fact that for centuries fueled debates, erasures, and a certain academic discomfort in admitting that the greatest character in Western drama may have been born from an intimate and literal loss. The correlation between the deceased son and the play has never been a secret, but it was always treated as a nagging detail that was almost too inconvenient for the myth.

The film starts from this established historical knowledge (the son's existence, his untimely death, and the phonetic proximity of the names) to speculate on what the records fail to capture. Most importantly, it shifts the perspective. While history has always been obsessed with protecting Shakespeare, it has been equally cruel to Agnes, his wife.

Historically portrayed as a difficult figure, resentful, or even a shrew abandoned in the countryside while her husband thrived in London, Agnes has always existed at the margins of the canon. Maggie O’Farrell’s book and now Chloé Zhao’s film do something rare: they do not try to clean up or soften her, but rather return her complexity, agency, and protagonism. For the first time, history does not ask what Shakespeare lost. It asks what she lost and what she was forced to carry alone.

The film builds its narrative with an almost stubborn calmness. We follow the meeting between Agnes and William as youths, her reputation as a woman associated with healing and nature, and the inevitable label of witch. Their relationship is not born easily because there is social resistance, differences in background, and mistrust. The marriage is less a romantic fairy tale and more a survival pact.

We move through the building of their family, the birth of their children, the domestic dynamics, and William’s progressive distancing as he spends long periods away for work. Agnes remains. She raises, sustains, and observes. The film insists on these everyday gestures and this seemingly banal cohabitation until the inevitable occurs: the death of Hamnet.

It is worth reinforcing that this is not a spoiler. It is in the synopsis, the title, and actual history. What matters is not the event itself, but the impact it triggers. From that point on, the film transforms into a harrowing portrait of a family that no longer knows how to exist in the same way.

The Issues

This is precisely where the film begins to stumble over its own rigor. The son's death only occurs after about an hour and a half, and until then, the movie invests heavily in planting bonds, affections, and symbols. It does this so often that the sensation shifts from preparation to exhaustion. The viewer already understands who this family is, has connected with the boy, and has realized what is at stake. The film, however, keeps insisting.

After the central event, there is a clear shift in focus. For most of the runtime, we are with Agnes. The grief is hers, the body is hers, and the silence is hers. In the final stretch, the film decides to shift the focus to William, giving weight to his suffering and reorganizing the narrative around his pain.

This choice is problematic because it contradicts everything the film had been building. William was never the central character of this story and he did not need to be. By trying to balance the scales at the end, the film dilutes the strength of the perspective it chose at the start. The idea of art as an expurgation of trauma is beautiful, symbolic, and even powerful, but it feels tacked onto a film that was talking about something else: permanence, abandonment, and a grief that does not automatically turn into a masterpiece.

The Strengths

That being said, Hamnet is a film made for the cinema. It is for the dark room, for the collective silence, and for the stifled sob that escapes mid-screening. It is no exaggeration to say there is always someone crying. This is not because the film is manipulative, but because it is persistent.

Zhao’s direction is sensory, delicate, and patient. The camera observes more than it interferes. The performances, especially Agnes as played by Jessie Buckley, are simply brilliant. She dominates every frame, every silence, and every micro-gesture. It is a performance that does not ask for attention; it demands it.

Unsurprisingly, Buckley won the Golden Globe for Best Actress. The film rests on her shoulders and she carries it all: the grief, the rage, the love, and the emptiness. Even when the script falters or overextends itself, she is the one who keeps the viewer anchored in the experience.

Perhaps it’s not meant to be understood, but felt

Hamnet is not a film that explains itself well through arguments. It does not tie up every idea, resolve every tension, and it definitely does not offer comfort. Perhaps that is exactly where it succeeds.

Not every trauma turns into art cleanly. Not every pain needs to make sense. Sometimes, the most you can do is feel it and survive it.

Rating: 3 out of 5

This is a powerful, sensitive, and at times excessive film. It works better as an emotional experience than as a cohesive narrative construct. What might be a flaw for some is exactly the draw for others.

And you? Were you moved?

Until next time!