Wit is one of my go-to movies whenever I can't decide on anything else. It is supremely satisfying in the brilliant acting, writing, directing, music, balance between humor and drama, etc. I think Emma Thompson gives a master class in acting that should be studied by every would-be film actor. The story revolves around Vivian Bearing, a college professor of English literature who has stage 4 ovarian cancer and is an inpatient going through several rounds of chemotherapy.
In this scene, she is visited by her former professor and mentor Evelyn Ashford (Eileen Atkins). There is an earlier flashback scene with Professor Ashford that shows the root of Vivian's admiration of poet John Donne.
Here, Evelyn visits Vivian in the hospital during her final days. Vivian is barely concious but is clearly moved by Evelyn's appearance. Evelyn reads a children's book, The Runaway Bunny, to Vivian in an effort to comfort her (she has just purchased the book for her great-grandson). The tenderness in this moment is almost overwhelming. Vivian has received absolutely no visitors during her long stay in the hospital and Evelyn seems to be the only person Vivian has an affection for in her life. There is also a glorious piano ballad playing over this entire scene which perfectly underscores the mood. And then when Evelyn is leaving, she leans down to kiss Vivian's forehead and says, "And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." The scene title on the DVD is Permission to Die which is exactly what Evelyn does here.
Eileen Atkins is brilliant in this moment largely because she is absolutely without melodrama in a scene that could easily drown in bathos in the wrong hands. She plays just the right notes (right along side the piano score) and not a word or a gesture is wasted. When she leaves Vivian's room, you really sense that this is the end - Evelyn has in a sense given Vivian her last rites and it's "time to go." An absolutely perfect film moment...check it out!
This is the Donne poem that is often cited throughout the film:
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
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