Certain plays, whether loved or disliked, serve a valuable purpose, much like how musical standards provide a rich foundation for singers and jazz musicians. A play that is widely known—or at least familiar in some way—can act as a framework, a launching point for a variety of imaginative interpretations. The late-19th-century Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen has given us two works in particular that actors and directors frequently revisit: both A Doll’s House and Hedda Gabler are narratives about defiant women, characters who make decisive choices without seeking male approval. Nora, from A Doll’s House, is a wife and mother who abandons her family, societal expectations be damned. The central figure of Hedda Gabler is a bored, unhappily married aristocrat who toys with the destinies of those around her as a means of asserting some control over her own existence. These are women who have simply had enough. Their anger has no expiration date, and so they reappear in popular culture repeatedly.
There is considerable passion in Hedda, Nia DaCosta’s visually inventive, if somewhat disjointed, reimagining of Hedda Gabler—though it’s a passion intended to energize rather than alienate. Tessa Thompson stars as the strong-willed heroine, married to a rather meek academic, George Tesman (Tom Bateman), who is vying for an important university position. His main competitor is a woman who has already published one brilliant treatise and just completed another, Eileen Lovborg (played by the superb German actress Nina Hoss); she also happens to be one of Hedda’s former lovers. The setting is Hedda and Tesman’s lavish English country house, sometime in the 1950s. The couple is hosting a party—Eileen will be there, along with her current romantic partner, also a collaborator in her work, Thea Clifton (Imogen Poots)—though tragedy will unfold by the end of the night. Meanwhile, a manipulative judge, Roland Brack (Nicholas Pinnock), lurks on the fringes, hoping to seduce or even blackmail the compellingly attractive Hedda. At the film’s beginning, as party preparations are underway, she stands imperiously on the roof of her grand estate in a clingy red jersey dress and shoots at him with a pistol. It’s no wonder he is so captivated by her.
If you are not already familiar with the play, you might find yourself a little bewildered by Hedda—or perhaps simply bored. DaCosta has directed a hit horror film (Candyman) and a mainstream superhero movie (The Marvels), and with Hedda, you get the impression that she and Thompson are thoroughly enjoying the freedom that comes with making a film outside the confines of a studio blockbuster. Thompson’s Hedda and Hoss’ Eileen circle one another like hungry big cats—you can still feel the erotic tension between them. But elsewhere, you’re not entirely sure why Hedda is so intent on causing trouble. That’s partly the point, of course—Hedda is not meant to be easily understood. However, Thompson’s performance is so affected that it’s difficult to grasp Hedda’s thoughts and feelings. Her speech is aggressively articulate and mannered, so deliberately stylized that it feels like unnecessary embellishment. Thompson is a tremendous actress; she was astonishing in Rebecca Hall’s 2021 adaptation of Nella Larson’s Passing, as a woman drawn into the delicate world of an old high school friend who attempted to hide her racial identity. Yet, aggressive stylization still needs to serve the core of the character; it cannot merely come across as a premeditated, overly fussy choice. It also doesn’t help that certain elements of Hedda are overtly exaggerated: no actress could convincingly pull off the garish makeup Hoss wears, or her strange half-siren, half-milkmaid gown, which ultimately serves a plot purpose that feels far too calculated.
In interviews, DaCosta has spoken about the satisfaction of telling stories in which Black women behave imperfectly, instead of being compelled to act as virtuous role models. That is precisely the kind of director one would desire for an Ibsen adaptation, someone who can bring a breath of originality to material that has been interpreted countless times. But intentions do not always translate into a cohesive, fully realized film. The movie’s production design is magnificent: it boasts a luxurious, opulent aesthetic. Hedda’s grand house, with its flocked wallpaper and ornate mirrors, feels both alluring and oppressive to us—it’s easy to understand how it feels to her. But Hedda seems more focused on its own novelty than on the emotional substance of the story. The character of Hedda Gabler is elusive by design. The last thing she needs is a lot of elaborate artistry around her; we need to be allowed to recognize her ruthlessness and her majesty on our own.
