Shirley

Adapted from Susan Scarf Merrell’s novel, Shirley is a fictionalized biography of Shirley Jackson, a midcentury horror writer famous for her sinister writings on the American bucolic (most notably “The Lottery”) and bizarrely reclusive persona. By centering the story on Rose (Odessa Young, Assassination Nation), a college-age newlywed who becomes entangled in Shirley’s tumultuous web, director Josephine Decker (Madeline’s Madeline) and screenwriter Sarah Gubbins have masterfully elevated a standard biopic to a haunting revisionist tale.

When wide-eyed Rose and her oblivious husband, Fred (Logan Lerman, The Perks of Being a Wallflower), move in with Shirley (played to perfection by the queen of unhinged characters, Elisabeth Moss) and her obnoxious, philandering husband, Stanley (Michael Stuhlbarg, The Shape of Water), the seams of both marriages quickly pull apart. Using his powers of undue influence as a prestigious professor and Fred’s mentor, Stanley insists that the young couple live with them — an invitation that feels more like an order — in an effort to help Fred embark on the path of success.

However, it’s made abundantly clear that Stanley wants Rose to monitor Shirley’s increasingly erratic behavior and pick up the domestic slack that his wife’s bouts of mania and depression wreak on the household. Initially posited as a commendable concern for Shirley’s declining mental health, this act quickly reveals itself to be an attempt to control his wife and assuage the guilt of his extramarital activities. Still, Rose reluctantly agrees to the terms, compelled by the stress of an untimely pregnancy, her subsequent school dropout and her husband’s overshadowing career aspirations.

Shirley is caustic and fickle, like a feral cat in ill-fitting ’50s clothing. She embodies unconvention by saying exactly what she feels, when she feels it, and habitually throws socially “acceptable” behavior and gender roles out with the bathwater. Shirley isn’t precious, graceful or easily defined — she’s untethered and unattached, in every sense of the word. She delights in her own wickedness and enjoys creating discomfort around others — in fact, she seems to revel in it.

On the other side of this freedom, however, is an agonizing plague of writer’s block and severe depression, which largely confines Shirley to her bedroom and despondent mind. Unable to leave her bed or make it to the dinner table to eat — much to her husband’s performative chagrin — she seems to only indulge in self-destruction, bottomless cocktails and bed-bound chain smoking. Viewers get the immediate sense that this turbulent dance is one that has been performed many times before: Shirley refuses to budge, devolves into “hysterics,” Stanley commands her to “behave,” and the two war with one another until one gives in. It’s the type of toxic relationship that’s thoroughly uncomfortable to experience but one that feels next to impossible to stop watching, and the doe-eyed young couple have a front row seat to the madness.

As Rose carries out her task of observing Shirley during her fits of tortured genius, she becomes captivated by them. The unadulterated anger that Shirley enacts by breaking things and screaming at anyone who dares to approach her work frightens Rose but also fascinates her. The rush of wild abandon surrounding Shirley imbues Rose with what the latter calls a “terrifically horrible” feeling — one that encompasses both danger and intrigue — and presents a startling path to freedom for Rose.

When Shirley uncovers the news of a missing college coed and begins to fixate on it, her heady fog begins to lift. Quickly, her manic obsession with Paula, the MIA woman, obliterates her writer’s block, sets her new novel aflame and catalyzes an overarching, all-consuming exploration of what it means to be a “lost girl.” Rose embarks on this quest alongside Shirley, seeing herself as voiceless and a lost girl of sorts, and is entranced by the allure of an entirely erasable identity.

What ensues is a mix of hallucinatory imagery and gothic queer narrative that pushes as much as it pulls. The alluring, dreamlike quality of the film is due in large part to Sturla Brandth Grøvlen’s gorgeously hazy cinematography and the undeniable chemistry between the two female leads. Moss and Young thoroughly entangle their characters and represent a desire that feels distinctly feminine — a depiction of internalized repression and resentful yearning that compels them to push beyond their comforts and seek a more honest awakening.

Young’s Rose is naive, curious and quietly simmering, a transfixing character trifecta that you root for no matter the circumstance, and the actress gives a performance that undoubtedly solidifies her as one to watch. In contrast, the “Shirley” that Moss portrays on screen feels otherworldly and bewitching, like someone who’s less of a real person and more like a character in one of Jackson’s fictional stories. However, this approach serves as a perfectly curated reflection of the film on the whole, as it blurs the line between real and imagined. Shirley fascinatingly complicates the lens through which we mythologize and demystify famous (or, in this case, infamous) figures. How can we be sure what we’re seeing is real? Who is more true — the person or the persona?

The film’s wild, visceral score, composed by Tamar-kali (Mudbound), adds exponentially to this question of reality. Indelible original titles such as “I Didn’t Ask You to Behave,” “Possession” and “The Summoning” mimic the story’s slow descent into madness and breathe unbridled vigor into its seemingly stuck characters.

The score culminates with “The Death of Little Wifey,” a track poignantly signaling the point of no return for Rose and Shirley. As a viewer, it’s an absolute treat to hear the ghostly violins as they slowly creep into your subconscious and saturate each scene with heavy-hearted tension. The low-humming rhythm not only reflects the deep, conflicting moods of its on-screen counterparts but fully informs them in such a guttural way that it’s impossible to differentiate where the score ends and the story begins. As the women’s lives become intertwined and begin to unravel, the score replicates this ruthless destruction, suffusing mystery and spiritual awakening with an empowering ethos.

Next to the slightly diabolical original score, music supervisors Bruce Gilbert and Lauren Mikus employ classic ’40s and ’50s songs like Paula Watson’s swanky “Pretty Papa Blues” with the catchy Depression-era banjo stylings of Clarence Ashley and peppy pop of The Bell Sisters to infuse the film with an idyllic midcentury gravitas. These melodies feel familiar and charming — with scenes of after-drinks dancing and merriment accompanying them — all while lacing each moment with an underlying uneasiness, deliciously ramping up the unspoken tension present onscreen.

Though 2020 has been a particularly peculiar year for films, Shirley has firmly cemented itself as one of its top entries and a bona fide literary thriller. It’s an exquisite fever dream that evocatively explores the messiest parts of the female identity and presents a perspective that feels both off-putting and intoxicating. It complicates the myth of the “madwoman in the attic” by offering up an alternative that both reinforces and rejects its premise.

Sure, it’s complex and confounding at times — with dizzying camera work and narrative loose ends aplenty — but it gives us more than enough to intellectually chew on and is never ever boring. Shirley is the type of film that begs for repeat viewings, sinks into your bones and rewards those who rewatch it with a deliciously unshakable feeling that lingers long after the end credits have rolled.

Available to rent starting June 5 via fineartstheatre.com