ying is an art." These words, from Sylvia Plath's poem "Lady Lazarus," are the first spoken in "Sylvia," Christine Jeffs's emotionally rich life of the poet, who is played with radiant conviction by Gwyneth Paltrow. The assertion may be debatable, but there is no question that Plath's own death — she committed suicide in 1963, at 30 — has been subject to unending analysis and interpretation, framed by the kind of inquiry that usually guides classroom literary analysis. (The literary critic A. Alvarez, who was Plath's close friend and who is portrayed in the movie by Jared Harris, likened her death to a final unwritten poem.) What was Plath's intention? What did her suicide mean? What did it reveal about her family, her society, her time, her sex, herself?

The answers to these questions, chewed over by biographers, novelists, polemicists and fellow poets, have been contentious, and nothing in Plath's biography has proved more polarizing than her marriage to Ted Hughes, who survived her and became Britain's poet laureate in 1984. (He died of cancer in 1998.) Hughes's role in Plath's adult life (they married in 1956), his behavior in the period just before her death and his subsequent actions as the executor of her literary estate have been at the heart of an interminable argument about Plath's legacy, and have at times overshadowed her own poetry as well as his. Many of Plath's admirers treat her as a martyr and Hughes as, symbolically if not actually, her murderer. Her short life has become, fairly or not, a parable of the stifling of women's self-expression by a chauvinist literary establishment in the years before feminism. Those more sympathetic to Hughes have preferred to see him as a fellow sufferer, a flawed, talented man married to a gifted woman with a history of mental disturbance, who had first tried to kill herself long before she met him.

Although partisans on both sides may disagree, "Sylvia," which opens today in New York and Los Angeles, tries to address the Plath-Hughes marriage even-handedly and resists the urge to turn its heroine's life into allegory. It is more like opera, which is braver, and also more fitting. Ms. Paltrow looks a lot like Plath and speaks with the right semi-Anglicized American preppy accent, but her performance goes well beyond mimicry. She has a vivid, passionate presence, even when her lively features have gone slack with depression and her bright blue eyes have glazed over.

Daniel Craig is a bit more opaque. In Hughes's poems, which are full of violent animal imagery, hawks and crows have a special totemic significance, and Mr. Craig, with his craggy, shadowed face, looks like a rangy, wounded bird of prey. His voice is a low growl, and his sexual magnetism, the trait that is the movie's main concern, is palpable.

The two young poets meet at a party at Cambridge University. At the end of their first kiss, he steals one of her earrings and she bites his cheek, drawing blood. Later, at a small gathering in period-shabby student rooms, they hurl passages of Shakespeare at each other, then tumble into bed. Sex and poetry are linked in this film as if by a high-tension, high-voltage wire, and while the connection may seem facile, it is also, with respect to these writers and their milieu, entirely plausible.

When Ted insists to Sylvia that the true subject of her poetry should be herself, it is worth recalling that, to them, this was not yet a therapeutic cliché but a radical and dangerous creative enterprise. And their fervid, all-consuming desire to be poets is a heady mixture of careerism and more exalted ambitions.

But how to dramatize the creative process and its psychic costs? This is the principal challenge facing any movie about a writer, and it dooms many honorable efforts to either timidity or ridiculousness. (Think of Nicole Kidman, in her Virginia Woolf mask, muttering to those poor daffodils in "The Hours." ) It helps, in this case, that Ms. Jeffs has a lyrical sensibility that matches her subject. Her jagged, dreamy first feature, "Rain," about a teenage girl's loss of innocence, is at once wide-eyed and pitilessly precise in its psychological insights, qualities it shares with some of Plath's later verses. Ms. Jeffs's understanding of Plath, like Ms. Paltrow's, is deep and sincere, and ultimately more intuitive than analytical. "Sylvia," rather than trying to explain Plath, wants to burrow into her personality without disturbing its mysteries.

The dramatic crux of the movie is the triangle that develops between Plath, Hughes and Assia Wevill (Amira Casar), who became Hughes's second wife, and whose subsequent suicide was a grisly echo of Plath's. The supporting performances, notably Mr. Harris and Blythe Danner, as Plath's stern and sympathetic mother, Aurelia, are excellent. But the emotional core of "Sylvia" lies in the feverish transactions between Ms. Jeffs, Ms. Paltrow and the hovering shade of the poet herself. The psychological dynamics of the marriage, unsettled by professional envy and sexual jealousy, are duly noted, but the film's emotions are too big, too untidy and too strange to be contained by its story.

John Toon's cinematography has the thick, oversaturated look of old Technicolor, and the honeyed light that usually surrounds Ms. Paltrow darkens as Plath's miseries increase. The film itself, somewhat like Todd Haynes's "Far From Heaven," which was set around the same time, is oversaturated with feeling, and also with music, as Gabriel Yared's feverish score sends a ripple of melodrama through otherwise ordinary scenes.

This may trouble those who insist on austere literalism in their biopics, but it seems to me that a movie about poets — especially about these poets, who use blank verse as an aphrodisiac and who gather around the phonograph to listen to a recording of Robert Lowell reading "The Quaker Graveyard in Nantucket" — is entitled to some passionate recklessness of its own.

And the poetry that Ms. Paltrow and Ms. Jeffs enact together compensates somewhat for the film's skimpy use of Plath's own words. Toward the end, as she composes the poems that would, when published as "Ariel," secure her posthumous reputation, the words rush onto the soundtrack in a jumble of discontinuous lines, and we hear almost nothing of her earlier work (and nothing at all of Hughes's, though Mr. Craig does a fine recitation of Yeats's "Sorrows of Love").

It is Plath's writing that represents, after all the polemicizing is done, her surest claim on our attention. The makers of "Sylvia" may, to some degree, have neglected this brilliant, unsettling and tragically foreshortened body of work, but they have not betrayed it.

"Sylvia" is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian) for nudity, sex and profanity.


Directed by Christine Jeffs; written by John Brownlow; director of photography, John Toon; edited by Tariq Anwar; music by Gabriel Yared; production designer, Maria Djurkovic; produced by Alison Owen; released by Focus Features. Running time: 110 minutes. This film is rated R.

WITH: Gwyneth Paltrow (Sylvia Plath), Daniel Craig (Ted Hughes), Jared Harris (A. Alvarez), Blythe Danner (Aurelia Plath), Amira Casar (Assia Wevill) and Michael Gambon (Professor Thomas).