horal voices humming in the background introduce Agnes (Jessie Buckley), slumbering beneath a massive tree in a verdant forest, curled up like a deer or other native fauna. After she awakens, she goes in search of her hawk to give it a meal. When she returns, tutor Will (Paul Mescal) spies her from the main house, where he schools a group of young boys, prompting him to rush outside to the garden to flirt with her. Although they’re immediately drawn to one another and share a kiss, she quickly becomes guarded and uncertain. “You can’t see me again.”

As it turns out, Will is considered a trade-less, skill-less, useless, ne’er-do-well (a “pasty-faced scholar”), who is working as an educator to pay of his father’s debt. And Agnes is considered odd, rumored to be the daughter of a forest witch, who can read people by touching their hands, and see things that others cannot. As they begin to spend more time together, with Will beguiling her with the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, Agnes serves as his muse, inspiring him to write. Of course, their infatuation also turns to romance and sex and a child, forcing their families to arrange a marriage to avoid scandal and impropriety. “You’ve been bewitched!”

As a period piece, “Hamnet” embraces what it feels is an appropriate level of dirt, grime, sweat, and general dishevelment. Hands and fingernails are often blackish with filth, while scabby wounds seem to afflict every face or limb. When Will and Agnes’ baby is born, it’s unusually – but authentically – covered in various fluids. All of the people here are coated with a discernible uncleanliness; many scenes might even be called ugly. It may be purposeful in its goal of crafting specific visuals (the lack of sanitation is practically a character of its own, with pestilence proving to be a major calamity), but it’s awfully distracting. It also doesn’t help that the main personas are flawed or strange to a considerable degree; everyone makes very questionable decisions when it comes to preserving and supporting their families, typically based on whims and abnormal customs.

In that same vein, the first part of the story is bizarrely uneventful. A whirlwind romance and childbirths (though loud and tearful) aren’t exactly riveting. It’s slowly paced, quiet, and moderately morbid, dwelling on familial tragedies and traumas, which are themselves subdued and fleeting. As time passes, the events remain minimal and plain; Will and Agnes play with their children and teach them various activities, as Will journeys to and from London to work in a playhouse, steadily planning to move his family to the outskirts of the city. One of the reasons it all feels so muted and bland is that there’s rarely any notable background music or significant sound effects.

As a result of the unadorned, quotidian happenings, the performances become the standout pieces; the child actors and the stars do a fine job in bringing their roles to life (a few poetic recitations are quite potent). More than halfway through, a monumental adversity finally occurs, but it only provides for a few moments of emotional outpourings and moving grief; it’s still largely reticent in dramatics and mood. With Chloe Zhao (“Nomadland”) at the helm, “Hamnet” is evidently focused on being artsy above all else.

Thanks to advertising and readily available synopses for the film, the marginal surprises that Hamnet is interchangeable with Hamlet, or that Will’s character is Shakespeare, don’t actually come across as profound. Other than presenting an uncommon angle, a rare examination of the possible influences for one of the bard’s greatest plays, this crawling picture is mostly dry, forgettable, and even intermittently tedious. Excellent acting alone (and an incredibly satisfying finale, making the most of composer Max Richter’s own orchestral music “On the Nature of Daylight” – a recognizable tune used decades prior and in numerous other productions, which is something of a cheat to repurpose here) can’t save this endeavor from being predominantly unremarkable. “What do you see?” “Nothing.”

– Mike Massie