The Theory of Everything

The Theory of Everything doesn’t actually delve much into the theories or scientific work of Stephen Hawking. Mentions of his work are peppered throughout, but on the whole, this isn’t a look at the brilliant mind the general public knows. Its focus is on the man they don’t, specifically the trials of his disease and its effect on his family life. On account of the talents involved, it’s a wonderful, emotional portrait of that life.

Based on the memoirs of Hawking’s first wife Jane (played by Felicity Jones), the film depicts their meeting as students at Cambridge in 1963. That same year, Stephen (Eddie Redmayne) is diagnosed with motor neuron disease, but the two get married nonetheless. Despite his physical deterioration over the years—from unable to walk, to unable to move at all, to eventually unable to speak and having to rely on his famous vocal generator—they manage a mostly happy life, having three children and trying to live like a regular loving family. But in addition to his ever-worsening disease, the marriage is tested by both of them developing feelings for others, her for their mutual friend (Charlie Cox) and him for his live-in nurse (Maxine Peake).

Redmayne is almost uncanny as Hawking. Besides looking so similar, his physicality in the role is very convincing. Every step of his character’s regression, from just initially affecting his walking motion to full paralysis, looks as authentic as the real thing. It’s excruciating, at times physically painful to watch, as well as saddening. He also displays the real Hawking’s ability to express emotion through tiny, subtle facial movements. Also deserving of praise is Jones, who’s a pillar of strength as his wife. And yet, her performance is likewise an exercise in subtleties, suggesting great pain and emotion, even inner torment, despite never breaking on the exterior. Even though it’s always measured and restrained in its expression, the film’s main dynamic between the two is one of great feeling.

In addition to the performances, the movie is also a beautiful film, with lush visuals and cinematography despite its intimate scale. Often in biopics, form takes a backseat to performing; it’s more about the actors than narrative. Not so here. Instead of a cliff note representation of Hawking’s life, director James Marsh instead frames things as a relationship drama. Such gives the picture an engrossing pace even with its decades-long scope. And instead of piling on the sentiment, Marsh lets the emotion simmer and fester and come to fruition naturally.

It’s sometimes a heartbreaking film, but it’s also a host of good emotions, most of all uplifting. And it’s all the more effective because the film understates Hawking’s fame. The real Stephen Hawking is an inspiration because despite his debilitation, he’s not only an accomplished man of science but a bona fide celebrity (the man's been on The Simpsons and Star Trek, among other things). The Theory of Everything is inspiring because it shows such limitations don’t stop one from having a full, happy, intimate human experience, either.