All language subtitles for Sylvia (2003) 1080p

Dying is an art…

Like everything else,

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say
I have a call.

The new edition of the
"Saint Botolph's Review."

The new edition of the
"Saint Botolph's Review."

The new edition of the
"Saint Botolph's Review."

Come on, you look
like a man who reads poetry.

- Tom!
- No?

Tom!

- Excuse me.
- Tom.

Tom, where are the magazines?

They got held up
at the printer's.

I saw you selling them.

Oh, that's right.

They didn't review me, did they?

No, they reviewed you all right.

It's "Poetry," page 11.

"…Essentially commercial…"

bourgeois poetic…

"nakedly ambitious."

It's not very flattering.

Who the hell
do they think they are?

Well, you can ask them
yourself, if you want.

There is a launch party at
the Women's Union tonight.

8:00.

- Genuinely subversive.
- Where is he?

- Who?
- The one who wrote it.

What? That stuff
about you?

No, the one who wrote
"Fallgrief's Girlfriend."

This Edward Hughes.

Ted?
He's over there.

- I read your poems.
- What?

As soon as I saw them, I knew
they were the real thing.

Great, big, crashing poems,

not blubbering baby stuff
like the others.

Shall we dance?

They're colossal,

magnificent,

great blowing winds

on steel girders.

- You like?
- I like.

"O, most dear
unscratchable diamond."

Who the hell are you?

Sylvia Plath.

Sylvia Plath?

- The one whose poem…
- …you tore to shreds.

- No, no.
- Yes.

It was the editor.

He must have known
you were very beautiful.

You're all there, aren't you?

Yes, I am.

I have an obligation
in the other room.

Oh, Jesus Christ!

This I'll keep.

…Black marauder…

One day, I'll have
my death of him.

"One day, I'll have
my death of him"?

It's a bit morbid, isn't it?

He's my black marauder.

Well, don't get your hopes up.

Why?
What have you heard?

Him and his crowd, all
they care about is poetry.

Anything else is a distraction.

Including steady girlfriends.

Even pretty American ones with Fulbright
scholarships and red bicycles.

Ted Hughes. Ted Hughes.

Edward Hughes.
Edward Hughes.

Sylvia Plath.
Ted Hughes.

Mrs. Sylvia…

Hughes.

Get over.

Quiet!
Oh, shit!

- Whe… which one?
- That one.

How the bloody hell do you know?

Where the light's on.

- What are you doing?
- Stand back.

Oh, bugger.

- Give this a shot.
- Here.

Ooh, what you trying to do?
Bloody hell!

Oh, shit! Shit!

Shh.

Who is it? Who's there?

I'm looking
for Miss Sylvia Plath.

Well, she's not here,
so just bugger off.

Excuse me.

Please, could you tell
her that Edward Hughes…

Ted Hughes, called for her.

You're late.

- He was here.
- Who?

Your black marauder.

Him and his little
playmate… legless.

Chucking clods at my window.

Thought it was yours apparently.

What did he say?

Nothing comprehensible.

Sylvia.

He left an address.

"The chief defect of Henry King was
chewing little bits of string."

At last he swallowed so much it
tied itself in ugly knots inside.

"Physicians of the utmost fame
were called…"

No, no, no, it's magic.

It's not about magic. It's not like magic.
It is magic.

"When Henry… cried, 'All my
friends… It's real magic."

It's not conjuring tricks or pulling
rabbits out of bloody hats.

Incantations.

Spells, ceremonies,
rituals… what are they?

They're poems.

So what's a poet? He's a
shaman, that's what he is.

Or a shame.

"…Where I used to spend
my time …"

A fucking good poem is a weapon.

It's not like
a pop gun or something.

It's a bomb. It's like
a bloody big bomb.

That's why they make children
learn them in school.

They don't want them messing
about with them on their own.

I mean, just imagine if a
sonnet went off accidentally.

Boom.

- Drink!
- Drink!

Sylvia!

Come on, Sylvia.

Go on, get up, go on.

"If it be you that stir
these daughters' hearts"

Against their father,

Let not women's weapons, water
drops, stain my cheeks!

No, you unnatural hags,

- "I will have such revenges on you…"
- Faster.

"That all the world shall…
I will do such things,"

What they are, yet I know not,

- "But they shall be…"
- Faster.

"You think I'll weep.
No…"

I'll have full cause of weeping,

But this heart shall break
into… flaws or ere I'll weep,

"O fool,
I shall go mad."

Come on, Ted.

"I know you all and will a while
uphold the… humor of your idleness."

Yet herein will I imitate
the sun who permit the… clouds

To smother up his beauty… when
he please again to be himself,

…he may be more
wondered at by breaking through

- "The foul and ugly mists or vapors…"
- Faster.

"If all the years
were play and holiday,"

To sport would be
as tedious as to work…

…And nothing pleaseth
but rare accident.

So when this loose behavior
I throw off,

And pay the debt I never promiseth,
by how much better than my word I am

By so much shall I falsify men's hopes,
and like bright metal on sullen ground

- "My reformation…"
- Faster.

"…Shall show them all goodly
and attract more eyes"

Than that which hath no foil
to set it off!

I'll so offend
to make offense a skill

"Redeeming time when
men think least I will!"

Morecambe, again. Okay.

"O, dear Juliet,
why art thou yet so fair?"

Shall I believe that
unsubstantial death is amorous,

And that the lean
abhorred monster

"Keeps thee here in the dark
to be his paramour?"

"For fear of that, I still
will stay with thee,"

And never from this palace
of dim night depart again.

Here… here will I remain

"With worms that are
thy chambermaids."

Oh, you.

"The doors of breath
seal with a righteous kiss"

A dateless bargain
to engrossing death…

"Here's to my love."

"Thus with a kiss.

I die."

How did you get the scar?

I tried to kill myself
three years ago.

I broke into the box where my
mother kept the sleeping pills.

Went down to the basement into the
crawl space underneath the house.

And I took them
and I went to sleep.

Did you ever have something
that you wanted to erase?

No.

And?

And I took too many
of the damn things

and I puked them up.

And three days later,
my mother and brother

found me and pulled me out.

What about the scar?

I ripped my cheek
on the concrete

when they pulled me out.

- A memento mori.
- Hmm.

Yes.

Because I was dead…

only I rose up again.

Like Lazarus.
Lady Lazarus.

That's me.

You wouldn't do that
if you knew.

What?

What was down there.

Jesus Christ! What the…?!

Look.

Very intelligent, cows.
Did you know that?

Really?

Not a lot of people
give them credit.

What do you think they'd
prefer, Milton or Chaucer?

Chaucer, obviously.

Ladies, I give you
"The Wife of Bath."

"Experience,
though noon auctoritee"

Were in this world,

is right ynogh for me To speke
of wo that is in marriage.

For, lordynges, sith I twelve
yeer was of age,

"Thonked be God
that were eterne on lyve…"

Beautiful.

"…Housbondes at chirche dore,
I have had fyve…"

"23rd of August, 1956."

We thank you for the manuscripts
you submitted recently,

but cannot use this at present.

It is herewith returned
with our compliments.

Yours faithfully…"
blah, blah, blah.

How many today?

Two, and they went
straight back out.

And I typed up four more
copies of your manuscripts,

so now there's seven
in circulation.

Sylvia?

Come on.
Wake up.

Mmm, what time is it?

Doesn't matter about the bloody time,
look at this. Look, look, look.

"Our congratulations
that 'Hawk in the Rain'

judged winning volume,
Poetry Center first prize…"

- You won! You won!
- I fucking won.

I didn't even know I'd entered.

You know what this means,
don't you?

You're going to be
a published poet.

And?

We're going to America.

And?

Those whom God
hath joined together,

let no man put asunder.

It's so beautiful.

Oh, no, Daniel,
don't… not there, dear.

Put it over there.
That looks much better, yes.

Great.

I'd like to tie this
back if I could.

Mommy!

Oh, darling!

Welcome home, my darling.

Oh, God.

Oh, you look beautiful.

Oh, my sweet.

So this is the uebermensch.

Pleased to meet you,
Mrs. Plath.

Sylvia's told me
a lot about you.

Let's hope for both of our
sakes that some of it's true.

Leave the bags.

I'll have Sam and Daniel
get them. Sam, Daniel.

What do you think?

Still too runny.

About Ted.

- He's very…
- What?

I don't know.

Different.

Why can't you ever
just be pleased for me?

How is he gonna support you?

I don't want to be supported.

He's gonna be a great poet.

He just won this poetry prize
that was judged by W.H. Auden.

Really?

And I've got money saved up.

And when that runs out?

Mother, I just got
this teaching job.

And I can always sell stories to those
stupid magazines. It doesn't matter.

Darling, you know I've only
wanted what's best for you.

Well, he is the best for me.

Then what do you want me to say?

That you like him.

Do you love him?

I love him.

Then I like him.

Mmm, thank you.

- Outstanding girl…
- WOMAN: That looks good.

- Hey, Bob.
- Hey.

Oh, Mrs. Bergstrom.

- Hello, how are you?
- Sylvia! I'm well.

- It's so lovely to see you.
- And you, you're looking beautiful.

Thank you.
This is my husband Ted.

- Hello.
- Pleased to meet you.

- We've heard a lot about you.
- Likewise.

- Thank you.
- How are you enjoying yourselves?

- Hello.
- Oh, we're having such a nice time.

- Good.
- Thank you.

You've made us feel
so at home. Hasn't she?

Oh, if I close my eyes I could
be back in Mytholmroyd.

Your hem's up in the
front, darling.

Elizabeth, meet Ted.

- Ted, Elizabeth Brooks.
- How do you do?

My, aren't you
the catch of the day.

- Ted is going to be a great poet.
- Oh.

His last book
won… what was that?

It was the New York
Center Poetry Prize.

- Ooh!
- It's rather good.

It's the…
"The Hawk in the Rain."

- Really wonderful.
- You read it?

Yes. Of course.

What did you think of the
poem about the giraffe?

Oh, listen to that accent.

There wasn't a poem
about a giraffe.

Say something else.

I need a drink.
Excuse me, ladies.

Well!

This Sylvia's father?

Mm-hmm. Yes. Bumblebees
were his specialty.

It's all he ever thought about.

Before the war, back in Germany,

his colleagues always called
him "Der Bienenkonig."

- And that means…
- King of the bees.

Yes, that's right.

That was Otto.
King of the bees.

You must forgive
my friends, Ted.

They haven't had
the advantages you have.

And what might they be?

Having to fight
for what you want.

That's why she is in love with
you, you know, Sylvia, I mean.

Oh my God, they were…
oh, they were…

I don't… I don't mean to sound
disloyal, but there were…

a lot of other boys. But
they didn't scare her.

She rather
frightened them, I think.

You're…

you're very different.

But I think you frightened
her, that's why she likes you.

You think I'd hurt her?

But I wouldn't hurt her.

Do you know that we found her
right where you're standing?

Right under there,
near the boards.

We thought she was dead…
she was so pale, so white.

Some people want to be found.
Sylvia didn't. She'd just…

crawled into a hole
and waited to die.

Be good to her.

Always.

- Hi.
- I hope you like fish.

Wow, look at those.
My God.

- Did you have fun?
- Uh-huh.

It finally cooled down. It was
so hot earlier, wasn't it?

- You tell me.
- I look a bit messy,

- because I started baking and I made…
- Baking?!

I made one real cream cake, but they
went a bit funny in the center.

I decided to throw it
out and start over.

But the funny thing is the second one looks
nicer than the first one anyway, so…

I thought you were gonna write.

Do you know some husbands
would be happy

that their wives stayed home and
baked them some nice cakes?

I am happy.

I'd just be happier
if you were writing.

I've got the whole
summer to write.

How was your walk?

Good.

Got a poem, a good one.

You?

I'm dried up.

That's 'cause
you've got nothing to say.

- I'm not a real writer.
- Never will be.

- I'm no good.
- You make great cakes.

You know what your trouble is?

I have a husband who thinks he
can tell me how to write poetry?

There's no secret to it.

You've just got
to pick a subject and…

stick your head into it.

You've got to write.
That's what poets do.

Yes, well, that's
easy for you to say.

You go out for a bike ride and come
back with an epic in hexameters.

I sit down to write,
I get a bake sale.

Do you know what?

Do you know what my trouble is?

It's that I don't have
a subject.

The novel, "Falcon Yard,"
what's that about?

It's about a girl
who meets a boy.

No, what's it really about?

You and me.

- What's it really about?
- Me!

A girl who spends
her summer at the beach.

No, see, no,
that's not really me.

Yes, it is. You told
me it was about you.

What I'm trying to say is that
you've already got your subject.

It's you.

I mean, you keep skirting
around the issue.

- You keep flowering it up.
- All right, all right! All right.

Shit!

- Jesus Christ!
- What?

The tide is dragging us out.

I'm not gonna get us back in.

People drown like this.

I tried to drown myself once.

I swam out in the sea
as far as I could,

but it just spat me out
like a cork.

I guess it didn't want me.

You know what's funny?

I was always happy
until I was nine years old.

I was always in one piece.

Then my father died.

"Full fathom five
my father lies,

Of his bones were coral made, those
were pearls that were his eyes."

"Destroy! Destroy! Destroy!"

Hums the underconsciousness.

Love and produce!
Love and produce!

Cackles
the upper-consciousness.

And the world hears only
the 'Love and produce' cackle.

Refuses to hear the hum
of destruction underneath.

Until such time
as it will have to hear.

The American has got to destroy!

"It is his destiny."

And finally,

this poem by Yeats, I think…

illustrates…

that point rather well.

At least, I hope it does.

Excuse me.

"The Sorrow of Love."

"The quarrel of the sparrows
in the eaves,"

The full round moon
and the star-laden sky,

And the loud song
of the ever-singing leaves,

Had hid away
earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came

With those red mournful lips,

And with you came the whole
of the world's tears,

And all the sorrows
of her labouring ships,

And all the burden
of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows
warring in the eaves,

The crumbling moon,
the white stars in the sky

And the loud chanting
of the unquiet leaves

Are shaken with earth's
old and weary cry.

Thank you.

Thank you.

- Well, thank you very much.
- It's so nice to meet you.

- You take care. Bye-bye.
- You too. Bye.

- Bye-bye, thank you.
- Mr. Hughes,

your voice is so powerful.

What did you think of the words?

The words?

So when is your next
book coming out?

Well, when I've written it.

Oh, it must be wonderful
to be married

to such a great poet.

Yes, it is.

It is. Would you excuse
us for just a moment?

- Sure.
- Excuse me.

I'm sorry, I just…
I'm so exhausted

and I've got a stack of papers
this high to get through.

So do you mind if we
go now or in a minute?

I'm going to have to say thanks

to Merlin for that review.

And Len Baskin's here, so I…

- Who's Len Baskin?
- Len Baskin, he organized all this.

Oh, right, right.

Sorry.
Take the car.

All right.

I'll see you later.

Right.

Is Mr. Hughes in?

No.

He said he'd look at my poetry.

He said it would be okay.

I'm sorry if I disturbed you.

Who is she?

She's nobody.

A student, she was…

in that creative writing
class I talked to.

She'd written all these poems.
I took pity on her.

You think I'm fucking her.

- Are you?
- Oh, for Christ's sake!

This place is really
getting to you, isn't it?

This bunch of dried-up,
malicious old women

who think their men are going
to get a taste for fresh meat.

As a matter of fact,
I'm not fucking her.

But if I do start fucking the students,
you'll be the first to know.

♪ Do you think
the trouble is ♪

♪ That I'm in love? ♪

♪ Mmm, yeah ♪

♪ Hey, Doc,
hey, Doc ♪

♪ I wonder what's wrong
with me ♪

♪ Give me your
wrist there, son,

♪ And I'll see
if I can see ♪

♪ Hey, Doc, hey, Doc ♪

♪ My temperature's
one thousand and three ♪

♪ What you been
doing with yourself, son? ♪

♪ Hey, Doc, hey, Doc ♪

♪ Whenever that gal
casts them glimmers on me ♪

♪ I thought it was
something like that ♪

♪ I get a dizzy
spell, a dizzy spell ♪

♪ I run around
in circles… ♪

♪ You need a pill, son ♪

♪ That's it, Doc,
my ticker's stopped… ♪

♪ Let me listen to it ♪

♪ I need strength, Doc… ♪

- Last night…
- I…

I was very tired.
I…

I've organized everything
so I won't be quite so tired.

I'm… I'm sorry.

It's not just you.
It's me, as well.

I can't write here.

- We should go back to England.
- And live on what?

We'll survive, lovely.

Do you see that?

That's the world.

Page 14 on line 14.

Yes, page 14, line 14.

There is an "E" … yes.

No… no two "P" s.

Will you get that?

Page 40.

Yes. Next, line eight.

Next, "The new moon's curve…"

All those guys are all the same.

Right.

I mean after "Hawk
in the Rain," they…

No.

They were hoping your next
book would be an anticlimax.

But I'm pleased to say you've
confounded them and outdone yourself.

- It's really quite wonderful.
- On the back page…

in the back jacket.

- I've just made some coffee. Would you like a cup?
- I think you can speak…

- …to the agent about that.
- Thank you.

All right?

- Hello.
- Hello.

You must be
Mr. Alvarez.

Yes, indeed,
and you must be Mrs. Hughes.

"Night Shift"?

Uh…

"Night Shift." It's a poem you
printed in "The Observer."

Oh yes, "Night Shift," yes.

- It was a good poem.
- Well, yes, I know.

I wrote it.

- You're Sylvia Plath?
- I am.

- Oh, well, nice to meet you.
- And you.

Tell me, have you
written any others, or…?

Yes, I have.
Actually, I have…

a book of poems coming out very
shortly called "The Colossus."

- I'd love to read them.
- Thank you. It would be an honor.

Yeah, I spoke to
George about it last week

and he was quite optimistic. It
might take another six months.

Well, the whole thing… it's
about putting a face to a name.

For them to put… you know, your
name to duh-duh-duh and likewise.

We've got Charlie Hetheringham
here, from the TNS.

We've got Les Robinson
from the "Critical Quarterly."

- That one there?
- Yeah.

And there's "The Telegraph"
and "The Times."

Oh, you see that chap
with the big heels?

He's easy,
he's from "The Listener."

So, it's a good turnout.

That's a good sign,
isn't it, that they all came?

Well, yes, of course.

Don't get your hopes up too high,
but yes it is. It really is.

They're all bloody civil servants
moonlighting as journalists.

It's their job
to protect the status quo.

- It's a tough game.
- Good to see you.

- It's the toughest.
- Mr. Robinson.

Mr. Robinson.

You forgot this.

Oh, thanks.

Do you think
you might be reviewing it?

Well, this,
I shouldn't think so.

We just got the new Pasternak.
Then Betjeman's out next week

and there' an E.E. Cummings
in the pipeline.

Not in the same league
really, is she, this Sylvia…?

Plath.

Poor thing,
can't be easy for her,

being married to that.

Still, good party.
Thank the boss.

- This is good.
- What?

By Alvarez.
Very good.

Listen.

"Her poems rest secure"

in a massive experience

"that is never quite brought
out into daylight."

Then there's a quote
and it says,

"It is this sense of threat"

as though she were
continually menaced

by something she could see only
out of the corner of her eye

"that gives her work
its distinction."

What about the rest?

It's a good review.

- One review?
- But it's a good review.

Look, it's hard. You know
it's going to be hard.

- My first book…
- Won prizes.

I got it.

Hello?

No, no, No, no problem.

Yes.

Yes. Oh, no,
certainly. Certainly.

Yes… no, no, that's no problem.

Good, all right.

Goodbye.
Bye.

That was Moira Doolan, the lady
from the BBC I told you about.

I sent her the idea for the Children's
Radio Series, you remember?

No.

She wants to have lunch.
I think she's interested.

- - That's
short notice, isn't it?

I'll see you later.

Bye.

Yes, is that the BBC?

May I speak to a Moira Doolan

in Children's Radio, please?

Do you have any idea
what time she left?

Did you happen to notice
if she left by herself?

Well, have you any idea if she plans
on coming back there this evening?

I understand, it's…

I'm looking for someone
who might have been with her.

His name is Edward Hughes.

My name is
Sylvia Plath-Hughes and I…

Don't take that
tone of voice with me.

What the fuck is going on?

- Where have you been?
- What is going on?

- I've been sitting here for 12 hours!
- Christ's sake!

- Where have you been?
- I was at a meeting!

- That was 12 hours ago!
- It was a lunch meeting. It went into dinner.

I called the BBC and they
said Moira Doolan left…

She had another meeting.
We met later!

Fiction really isn't
your gift, is it?

- We had dinner.
- Why don't you tell me where you were?

- She's a middle-age woman for Christ's sake.
- Liar!

I love you.

Do you?

A month in advance.
That'll do as a deposit.

You've got a bedroom, kitchen,

another bedroom, or study, or
whatever you want to use it for.

This is the living room,
which you've seen already.

That's it. Not much
to it, I'm afraid.

No, it's fantastic.

It could be great for David.

Why, what is it that you do?

- I'm a poet.
- Oh.

So are we.

- You're… - Ted Hughes…
I'll get some wine.

- I'm Sylvia Plath.
- Oh, my God. That's…

I gave Assia a copy of
your book, "The Colossus."

That's amazing.

- Yes, I love your poems.
- Hmm.

They're very beautiful.
They're frightening.

They have this haunting quality.

What?

No, it's just…

that's the best review
I've ever gotten.

I'm looking forward
to moving to the country.

- I think the fresh air…
- You don't think it will be isolating?

- Devon, I mean.
- You should come down and spend a weekend with us.

- Thank you.
- Absolutely, shouldn't they?

- Shouldn't they what?
- Come down to Devon and spend a weekend.

- Yeah, they should.
- Get out of the city. It would be nice.

I'd love to.

Do you want to go higher?

Whoo!

I'll get it.

Hello?

Hello.

No, I'm fine.
We're both fine.

How are you?

How's David?

Oh, he has.
Oh, that's good.

No, that would be…

that would be great, yes.

Well, Saturday's fine.

Yes, yes.

Yes.

I'll look forward to it.

Cheerio.
Bye-bye. Bye.

That was Assia and David.

They want to come down
this Saturday.

That would be nice, no?

God, it's so inspiring up here.

It's good to see
you and Ted again.

Here, take my hand.
It's muddy.

Oh, my God.
Would you mind?

- There you go.
- Thank you.

Thank you, Ted.
Oh, this country air.

Well, this soup
is extraordinary.

Mmm.

- Have some more.
- No, I couldn't, thank you.

Please, here.
Let me help you.

There's plenty.

Just a little, please.

- There you go.
- Whoops, thanks.

Always loved my food.

Ted says you have the new
Robert Lowell recording.

What?

The new Robert Lowell…
recording.

What about it?

Well, perhaps we could
listen to it later.

Fine.

Thank you.
Thank you.

Thank you.

Excuse me.

You mind telling me
what's going on?

- I see you.
- You see what?

Why do you insist
on humiliating me?

Sylvia, nobody's
humiliating you.

I mean, why bother?

You're doing such a bloody
good job of it yourself.

- Can I give you a top up?
- Please.

Oh, My God. Look at this.

You shouldn't have gone
to all this trouble.

I'm beginning to think
the same thing myself.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Thank you.
That's enough for me.

Thank you.

Thank you.

You're not eating.

No, I'm waiting for you.

I shall be very insulted
if you don't eat.

Would you like some?

No, you… you help yourself.

Thanks.

So, are you managing
to write at all with the baby?

Me? Oh, no.

No, but Ted is.

And that's really
all that matters, isn't it?

I mean, he's the real poet
in the house.

"The sea was
still breaking violently"

And night had steamed
into our North Atlantic fleet,

When the drowned sailor
touched the drag-net.

Light flashed from his
matted head and marbled feet.

He grappled at the net
with the coiled,

Hurdling muscles of his thighs.

"The corpse was bloodless,
a botch of red…"

- I'm going to do the washing up.
- I'll help.

- No, I'm fine.
- No, I insist.

"…Lights or cabin windows
on a stranded hulk,

Heavy with sand…"

I'll wash, you dry.

Yes, yes.

"…Close its eyes and heave
it seaward whence it came,"

Where the heel-headed dogfish
barks its nose

On Ahab's void and forehead

"And the name is blocked
in yellow chalk."

What is going on?

Nothing's going on.

Assia was just telling me
about a dream she'd had.

Can I help with anything?

I'd like you and Assia to leave
first thing in the morning.

It's just that I'm tired.
I'm so tired, and I…

you don't know what I've been through.
I've got two small children.

If you had children of your
own, you would understand.

I'm sorry.

Of course.

When will you be back?

I don't know.

A couple of days, maybe three.

It depends how long it takes.

What number will you be at?

I haven't decided who I'm
going to stay with yet.

I think people are getting pretty
sick of me sleeping on their floors,

so I'll probably just check
into a bed and breakfast.

You don't have to go, you know.

Yes, I do.

Sylvia?

The truth comes to me.

The truth loves me.

Hello?

I know who you are.

Hello?

Get out.

"This is the light of the mind…"

"If the moon smiled
she would resemble you…"

"Their redness talks
to my womb…"

"She would drag me,
cruelly, being barren…"

"Thick, red and slipping…"

"Your nakedness shadows…"

"Whose is that long
white box on the grove?"

"And I,
I need feed them nothing…"

"I sizzled in his blue…"

"Our cheesecloth gauntlets
neat and sweet…"

"Bare-handed,
I hand the combs…"

"The man in white smiles…"

"So I can't see
what is in there…"

"Some god got hold of me…"

"Lightly, through
their white swaddlings…"

"A world of bald white days
in a shadeless socket…"

"I cannot undo myself…"

"And the train is steaming…"

"Upflight of the murderess…"

"Never liked you."

They are dancing
and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

"Daddy, Daddy,
you bastard, I'm through."

It's…

It's what?
What is it?

Is it any good?

Good?

God, yes.

That "Daddy" poem…
the use of metaphor…

the way it builds the end

out of the blackness
into an explosion of fury.

It's just stunning.

I'm thinking
of moving back to London.

I'll send you some more
as soon as I'm settled.

I'd like that.

Sylvia…

I know this must have
been hard on you…

No.

Really, I've never been happier.

And I've never written more.
It's as if…

now he's gone, I'm free.

I can finally write.

I wake up
between 3:00 and 4:00

because that's the worst time.

And I write till dawn.

I really feel like God
is speaking through me.

And now we need
the little purple star.

Go up here.

Put all of them on.

That seems… much better.

You've got the snowflake.

All right.

Where's he going to live?

There.

Oh, oh.
She looks beautiful.

Hello?

- Hello?
- All right.

I'm very sorry to bother you.

I'm… I live upstairs.

My lights have gone out,
I've got no hot water.

I've got my children up there…

There's been a power cut.

The moment you need heat and
light to sustain life itself,

the government cuts
the electricity.

Why?

To build the national character.

Now leave your stove on for heat,
and to boil water for washing.

Here's some spare candles…

yeah, and some matches.

There you are.

Thank you.

You must think I'm
some stupid American bitch.

Oh, no, not at all. I
assumed you were Canadian.

- Yes, well, thank you.
- Pleasure.

- Thank you very much.
- Thank you. Bye-bye.

Hello, sweetheart.

This one's for you.

Happy Christmas, darling.

I didn't just come to see them.
I wanted to see you.

I want to see how you are.

I've missed you.

I've missed you all.

Christmas is bloody hard.

Can we… can we talk?
Can we sit down?

Are you still fucking her?

"I have
fallen a long way."

The moon sees nothing of this.

And the message of the
yew tree is blackness.

"Blackness and silence."

I don't know what else to do.

I can't…

I can't go back to her,
but I love her so much, it's…

You want another one?

Thank you.

This one is extraordinary.

And… and…
"Lady Lazarus."

The one about
the failed suicides…

the despair,

the overpowering
sense of foreboding,

and yet without a trace of anger

or hysteria
or any appeal for sympathy.

The… the wealth of imagery.

Such horrors.

But expressed with…

with a coolness.

Like a…

like a murderer's confession.

So, have you got a title
for your novel yet?

"The Bell Jar."

When's it coming out?

The new year.

Will you let me read it?

It's a pot-boiler.

Could you get me an ashtray?

Sure.

I didn't know you smoked.

I don't.
But I'm starting.

I'm thinking of trying
some new things.

Really?

Like what?

I'm thinking of taking a lover.

Oh, how glamorous.

Who is he?

Look…

I know how you feel.

No, you don't.

I do.

We have… we share in common…

I…

I tried to…

I tried to…

How?

Same as you, sleeping pills.

I took too many.

Everybody does, don't they?

Sometimes I feel like I'm not…

solid.

I'm hollow.

There's…

nothing behind my eyes.

I'm a negative of a person.

It's as if I never…

I never thought anything.

I never wrote…

anything.
I never felt anything.

All I want is blackness.

Blackness and silence.

Look…

one thing I do know about death

is it is not a…

a reunion or a homecoming.

There's… there's no…

your life doesn't
flash before you

and the missing piece
of you clicks into place.

It's just…
there's just fuck all.

There's nothing.

So what do you do
when your life…

gets as bad as it can…

and just keeps getting worse?

You just keep going.

Look…

listen.

You are so beautiful.

And you've…
you've a wonderful mind.

And you are a great…

a great poet.

And you and Ted…

you understand each other
in ways that…

that other people
can only dream about.

So for God sakes, don't
throw it all away…

I don't want to hear her name!

I was going to say

just because of an affair.

Are you all right?
Come in.

I'm going to die.
I'm going to die soon.

Who's going to take care
of my babies?

Mrs. Hughes,
I don't understand.

What do you mean you're
going to die? Are you ill?

No, I'm not ill.
I'm not ill.

I think I really
should call the doctor.

No, no, don't call a doctor.

Don't you know what they do?

They hook you up to the eastern
grid and fill you full of sparks.

Yeah. I'm sorry.

No, I'm sorry.

I'm just so on edge.

I'm just so on edge, I…

Oh, God, it's all my fault.
It's all my fault.

It's all my fault.

All I could think about
is what would happen

if somebody took
him away from me.

You see, if you fear
something enough

it can make it happen.

That woman…

I conjured her.

- Ma'am?
- I invented her. Do you understand?

No, I'm sorry.
I don't.

Oh, my God.

It's just that I'm so tired.

I'm so tired, I'm…

if I could just sleep a little
bit, just a little bit.

I'm just so exhausted.

Perhaps we could get somebody
to look after your children.

Oh, my God!
I left them upstairs!

No, no, don't go.
I'll go and check,

see if they're all right.
Would you like me to do that?

You stay there.

You're a very nice man.

No.

You remind me a little
of my father.

Yes, hello, Kate, it's Sylvia.

I'm all right, I…

I was wondering if I could
come 'round and see you.

I see.

Dr. Hawkins,
it's Sylvia.

I… oh.

I need help. I…

I don't think I can…

manage.

You look…

very nice.

You'd better come in.

Would you like a drink?

Please.

What do you want, Sylvia?

I wanted to see you.

I thought that you…

might like to see us.

I thought there was
something wrong.

Alvarez said you tried
to make a pass at him.

And I've been told
you've been taking pills.

No.

God, I missed you.

I almost went mad.

We're not even two people.

Even before we met,
we were just…

these two halves…

walking around with big…

gaping holes in us
shaped like the other person.

And then we found each other,
we were finally whole.

Then it's as if we couldn't
stand being happy,

so we ripped… we ripped
ourselves in half again.

In the spring,
we should go back to Devon.

We'll go back to Devon
and it'll just be us…

and the children and our work.

It'll be like this whole
thing never happened.

And the summer and the fall,

and this awful winter.

It'll all fade by the time
the leaves come out.

And it will just seem
like some nightmare

that was never real.

You don't love her
like you love me.

You'll never have with her
what you have with me,

you know that.

I know.

Leave her.

I can't.

She's pregnant.

Oh.
Everything all right?

Do you have any stamps?

It's silly, I know,

but I've got to post some
letters to America tonight

and I… airmail,
and I don't have any stamps.

Well, can't you post
them in the morning?

No.

No, I've got… I've got a
nurse coming in the morning.

You see, there's a nurse coming.

And anyway, I won't
be here in the morning.

Oh, I see.
Yes, I think I have some.

- Here we are.
- Thank you.

Stamps.
Thanks.

Thank you.

- Well, good night.
- Good night.

Look, do you want me
to call someone?

No.

No, I was just having…

I just had the most
beautiful dream.

I love you, sweetheart.

"The box is locked.
It is dangerous."

There are no windows,

so I can't see what is in there.

There is only a little grid.

"No exit."