Review: Chipping Away the Hard Shell of ‘Ammonite’
“What is it? Something? Nothing?”
Paleontology is a unique science, distinguished by its combination of force and sensitivity. The remains of ancient creatures can only be reached by hammers and pickaxes, digging through layers of unforgiving rock. Yet these unassuming surfaces conceal breathtaking remnants that must be handled with the gentlest of touch, lest they be broken in a single mishandling. Director Francis Lee (God’s Own Country) suggests the person doing the excavating may have similar design, framing his latest feature around the 1800s matriarch of paleontology Mary Anning (Kate Winslet). Ammonite is an arduous excavation of emotion as Mary’s life is changed by another woman.
Mary is characterized as a coarse and dogged fossil hunter whose finds are regularly coopted by her male counterparts, leaving her living in social solitude save for her ailing mother. Not given to conversation, much of her internal monologue is carried by the sounds of her rough scraping and cracking into stone. She has little reason to hide her disdain for uninvited callers, as with the arrival of aspiring paleontologist Roderick Murchison and his wife Charlotte (Saorise Ronan). The couple has traveled to the coast for Charlotte’s wellbeing, having been prescribed sea air to improve her poor health. When Charlotte’s enterprising husband offers a sum to Mary to care for his wife while he globe-trots, an opportunity for new romance between the two women emerges.
The film is held aloft by the combined ability of its lead actresses, and as the film departs from what is concretely known of the actual Mary Anning and Charlotte Murchison, Winslet and Ronan expertly fill in the details. Through Mary’s armored front we get an idea of the flaws and pains she hides. Charlotte’s frailty and melancholy evokes the short story The Yellow Wallpaper, mostly characterized by vulnerable stares and a confinement to bed, but Ronan proves her powerhouse talent by providing a sense of depth. Despite how delicate she appears after experiencing immense tragedy, her mind is still strong with rebellion. She faces the deafening surf, little more than a slip of ribbon trembling in the wind, and refuses to be pulled under and lost. We begin to see glints of repressed desire in both women, moments away from breaking through. They’re each most authentic when they’ve reached an unspoken understanding of each other, having uncovered an invaluable treasure of connection.
Fitting into the atmosphere of historical fiction and the austerity of the era, this brand of forbidden love is what Francis Lee has made a staple of his craft. Ammonite never shakes the feeling that no matter how much the women enjoy their moments together, men will ultimately still maintain control over their lives. Mary and Charlotte’s relationship is clearly destined to end from its very beginning, but not so tragically as to leave scars.
Aesthetically, Ammonite also leaves minimal impression. A score of rich strings-led orchestration by Dustin O’Halloran and Volker Bertelmann is drowned out on the blustery pebble beaches and sea cliffs. Relying heavily on cold tones as the pair dig through clay soil in search of fossils, the film falls into a flat and chilly uniformity.
By no fault of Ammonite’s own, following up Celine Sciamma’s Portrait of a Lady on Fire is a task with no hope of qualifying. Bearing a coastal resemblance along with an uncomfortable amount of narrative similarities, both period films take different routes to tell the stories of secret affairs between women. While Portrait pursues lofty, even mythological, storytelling methods to shape its scenes, Ammonite stays hunkered to the cold shore, literal and unadorned. While compelling as individuals, Mary and Charlotte’s romance feels particularly uninspired. The pronounced age difference between the two women is a strong contributor to their lack of attraction, as is the asymmetrical distribution of power when one becomes the other’s caretaker. Charlotte feels, at times, hapless and immature compared to her lover’s seasoned stoicism, preventing them from feeling like compatible equals.
While they share little in common, the waves of passion crash abruptly between the two, skipping over any stages of pining or convincing friendship. There’s a place for fervent lust when done right, but Ammonite’s scenes lose any and all purpose during its strenuous efforts not to look salacious or driven by the Male Gaze. Without putting in effort to make it an important character moment, the intimacy placed directly before the camera cannot generate enough heat to make the cold English seashore worthwhile.
Much like its namesake, the spiraling intricacies of the film are a diminutive shell of a once magnificent life, lost to the ages and entombed in stone. Altogether, Ammonite shapes up to be a modest prize for those endowed with the passion and patience to chip away.
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