Late one afternoon last fall, thanks to Netflix, we watched the 1998 movie HILARY AND JACKIE. It is the story of Hilary and Jackie du Pré as performed by Emily Watson and Rachel Griffiths, two accomplished actresses who magically impersonated two musical virtuoso sisters living in England.

The film, which was nominated for two Academy Awards (for actresses Watson and Griffiths) plus a total of 17 other awards, is the complex story of two gifted sisters — one a cellist, the other a flutist. Focusing on Jackie, the cellist, the movie was directed by Ms Anand Tucker from a script by Frank Cottrell Boyce, based on a true memoir written by Jackie’s siblings, Pier and Hilary du Pré.

While watching the film I was constantly reminded that there, but for
God’s grace, go I. Jackie du Pré at the height of her career was stricken with multiple sclerosis.

While I am a victim of Primary Lateral Sclerosis, a distant cousin of MS and the mildest (but most frustrating) form of neurological disorders, I was quite taken by Jackie’s first symptoms: her inability to dial a telephone number and dropping her cello bow at the end of a concert piece.

Later came her lack of muscular coordination, which resulted in an eventual wheelchair and premature death (at 42; I was already 53 when my youngest daughter was born and I am now 82, as of Wednesday last!)

Of course, Jackie du Pré was a world-class musician, while I am a world-class nothing; aside from the dim similarity of our maladies, we have no kinship other than national origins (my maternal grandmother was from England; her husband, my grandfather, was a Jew from Croatia; together they had four girls and my mother was the oldest; Aunt Gladys was born while Grandma was still in England),

But I remember well the day I could not dial a number and found that holding anything in my right hand as routine as a pencil was no longer possible; my fingers just no longer worked. Luckily, my left hand is unaffected, and I, being a writer, promptly taught myself to type and scribble as a sophomore.

Dressing, bathing, eating, opening the mail, et al, are something of a chore, not to mention walking with erratic balance and malfunctioning legs; but I manage — thanks mainly to the patience and expertise of my dutiful and caring wife.

Speaking of spouses, Jackie was married to Daniel Barenboim, a virtuoso pianist and conductor, a gem of a person somewhat cut from the same mold as my own mate, who took care of his wife when most would have
run for the hills. And she was also loved and cared for by her sister, Hilary, even after a brief affair with Jackie’s husband of many years. Hilary was married to Christopher Finzi, son of the famous composer, Gerald Finzi (ah, the miserable peccadilloes of hopeless and unsatisfied flesh!)

Together, their family and in-laws make up the tragic group that looked after Jackie’s every need, and perhaps that is why I say, there, but for the grace of God, go I.

In writing this column, I became particularly interested in critics’ reaction to the film, and doing some superficial research, I discovered that Stephen Holden of The New York Times called the movie one of the most insightful and wrenching portraits ever filmed of the joys and tribulations of being a classical musician [plagued by an incurable illness] and an astoundingly rich and subtle exploration of sibling rivalry and the volcanic collisions of love and resentment, competitiveness and mutual dependence that determine[d] their lives.

He went on to say HILARY AND JACKIE is as beautifully acted, as it is directed, edited and written. I could not agree more.

The late Roger Ebert, a cancer victim, formerly of the Chicago Sun-Times, described it as an extraordinary film [that] makes no attempt to soften the material or make it comforting through the clichés of melodrama.

In the San Francisco Chronicle, Edward Guthmann stated, Watson is riveting and heartbreaking. Assisted by Tucker's elegant direction and Boyce's thoughtful, scrupulous writing, she gives a knockout performance.

The accolades go on and on, but they are not all complimentary. Anthony Lane of The New Yorker said, The sense of period, of ungainly English pride, is funny and acute, but the movie mislays its sense of wit as the girls grow up.

The nub of the tale…feels both overblown and oddly beside the point; it certainly means that Tucker takes her eye, or her ear, off the music. The whole picture, indeed, is more likely to gratify the emotionally prurient than to appease lovers of Beethoven and Elgar [which he apparently is].

Entertainment Weekly rated the film A- and added, This unusual, unabashedly voluptuous biographical drama, a bravura feature debut for British TV director Anand Tucker, soars on two virtuoso performances: by the rightfully celebrated [Brit] Emily Watson . . . and by the under-celebrated [Aussie] Rachel Griffiths.”

Hear! Hear! . . .

Controversially, I read where Rana Dasgupta, the British born Indian novelist, wrote in an essay about biographical movies, that the film’s tagline – the true story of two sisters who shared a passion, a madness and a man – is a good indication of its prurient intent. The book's moving account of love and solidarity, whose characters are incomplete and complex but not mad, is rejected in favor of a salacious account of social deviance.

So? The film (and the book) is still moving and true to life.

I will always be grateful to my music teacher friend, David Savage, for correcting my careless error in conversation during his visit with me at Manor Care, that it was Jackie who was the cellist, not Hilary — and
to Netflix for including this movie in its collection.

I recommend it wholeheartedly to anyone who likes a good story, well acted and beautifully shot. The writing speaks for itself. There, but for God’ grace, go I.

Robert A. Mills
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