Sometimes I take out your letters and verses, dear friend,
and when I feel their strange power,
I find it hard to write.
I think that if I could once see you and know that you're real,
I might fare better.
It is hard for me to understand how you can live so alone
with thoughts of such a quality coming up in you.
Yet, it isolates anyone to think beyond a certain point
or have such luminous flashes as come to you.
So perhaps the place does not make much difference.
You must come down to Boston sometimes?
All ladies do.
Ever your friend, Higginson.
Emily.
Mom's still in bed, it's Maggie's week off,
and we don't have indoor plumbing. So…
you need to go fetch the water.
You know what?
Sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong century.
What a beautiful spring day!
Good morning, sunshine.
Did you know that I speak Dutch?
It is a beautiful day. Wish the mail would come.
Why? 'Cause you have a crush on the mailman?
What? No. I'm waiting for a letter from Henry.
-Not this mess again. -Starting to fear the worst.
If I don't hear from him soon,
what other explanation could there be than that he's… dead?
-I can think of another explanation. -You can?
Look, I don't know where Henry's been traveling,
but a man is only led by one thing, and it's not his compass.
Wherever he is, he probably fell into bed with someone else.
Even if he has, he could still write to Helen.
Girl, who are you protecting?
He left your whole ass and Helen's.
You need to start putting yourself back out there.
-Excuse me? -You need to start dating again.
You're asking me to date in the middle of the Civil War?
Look, it's never a good time, but despite the war, it's still spring.
Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming.
Spring is the season for new love,
not for moping around missing your ex
who always put you second to his abolitionist literary journal.
You need to let go of the past
and start building yourself a new future. Come on!
You make it sound so easy.
How do you stay so optimistic?
Because God called me to testify to the hope that's in me.
And right now, I hope that my friend Betty gets her proverbial groove back.
Who would I even meet at a time like this?
Morning, ladies!
-Him? -Why not?
-I don't think I can. I'm not ready. -No time like the present.
Any mail for us today, Freddie?
No, unfortunately.
I always wish I could bring something for you, Betty.
I love seeing that beautiful smile of yours.
Nice day for a walk, isn't it?
I know who could use a walk.
Amherst's most hardworking seamstress.
You're welcome to come along with me on my rounds.
That's not a date, that's a job. Take her on a picnic or something.
Well, we could do that if you're amenable to the suggestion.
I--
I'd like that, actually.
I could use some fresh air.
But remember, it's often darkest right before the dawn.
I lecture to testify to the hope that's in me!
Bitch, I'm 60!
Emily.
Up here.
Sue.
What are you doing up there?
I was waiting for you.
We need to talk.
Yeah, we do.
Why haven't you come to see me?
Well, I thought you were mad at me.
I am mad at you. That's why you should've come to see me.
Sue, listen.
It's really not fair of you to be angry at me
just because I reached out to someone else about my work.
It has nothing to do with you.
It has everything to do with me.
You once told me that you wrote for me and me alone.
But I guess my thoughts aren't enough for you anymore.
Now that I've had a baby, my brain is worthless, I suppose.
No, you've barely had time for my poetry since you had the baby.
And you've barely had time for my baby
since you're constantly writing your goddamn poems!
There it is then.
You don't even care about my poems anymore.
Of course I do. I just--
Then why should you take it personally when I reach out to someone else
-for his opinion? -A man?
A stranger? Someone who doesn't even know you?
Exactly!
He doesn't even know me.
He only knows my words.
I don't have to worry about his feelings getting involved.
Like when you tell me you hate a stanza.
Maybe you're just angry because I didn't help you change diapers.
Or worse, when you say you love a line,
well, maybe all that really means is that you love me.
I do love you, Emily, and what is wrong with that?
God, it is so unfair living like this. It's miserable.
All I want is to be with you,
is to curl up in bed with you at night.
And instead, I have to wait days and weeks with nothing.
Not nothing.
I write to you. Isn't that something?
Emily, you are a poet.
You work so hard on your poems.
You want every line to be perfect.
But I want the mess.
I want something that you can't put into words.
I want you.
And I want you to want me.
Of course I want you.
But I can't just live at your house.
For one thing, Austin isn't even speaking to me.
Okay.
And what if Austin goes away to war? What then?
-What do you mean? -They're drafting every able-bodied man.
His time will come.
When Austin goes away to fight, will you come see me then?
Or will you just find another excuse?
I better get back with this water.
It's going to rain.
Kiss me.
I can't.
Today is just not a good day.
Oh, God, Emily. Don't you realize today is all we have?
The agony!
The torture.
Vinnie?
Vinnie? What's wrong?
Look at me,
doing menial household labor day in, day out for my mother,
when what I want, what I dream of,
is to do menial household labor day in, day out
for my gorgeous, emotionally unavailable husband.
God, I just can't take it anymore.
Honestly, I can't either. Life sucks.
I'm terminally single, America's in a Civil War,
and now it's raining.
Yeah, today is the worst day ever.
Yeah.
Every day of this war,
I have hoped and hoped that things would somehow get better,
that the skies would clear,
that somehow we would see our way to a brighter future.
But none of that is happening.
Our family is falling apart.
I want to go back to the past.
Before the war started, before all my boyfriends died.
No, I'd rather go to the future.
Skip over all this mess to when the war is over and everything is different.
Imagine if we could just blink…
and be in the future. Just like that.
-Did you see that? -What was that?
What is happening?
Emily.
-Vinnie? -Yeah?
-Are we moving? -I think so.
Emily?
-What is happening? -I don't know.
-Vinnie! -Emily!
Oh, my God!
What was that?
What just happened?
The gazebo was spinning.
Yeah, and then it stopped.
And it stopped raining.
-Vinnie? -Yeah?
Does the house seem different to you somehow?
-Wait a-- Emily, I'm scared. -What was--
-That carriage has no horses! -And there's smoke coming out of its butt!
What?
-Oh, my-- -What?
What?
1955?
We're in the future!
Mrs. Dickinson?
How dare you disturb me, Edward? I'm in my sanctuary.
I found something quite concerning.
In Emily's greenhouse.
I thought you'd like to know.
What? The greenhouse? What are you talking about?
She had this growing in there, amongst her plants.
Okay. What is it?
This, Mrs. Dickinson, is cannabis.
I beg your pardon?
Cannabis sativa.
Otherwise known as hemp, hashish, the devil's weed.
It's a fashionable narcotic.
The Orientals, they roll it up and they smoke it.
It gets you high, Mrs. Dickinson.
Well, I'm sure Emily doesn't know anything about that.
She probably just grew it because it's pretty.
Perhaps you're right. Maybe she had no idea.
But this stuff is dangerous.
It can lead to all sorts of ecstasies, dreams, delusions.
Well…
Should we try it?
What? Should we?
You only live once.
-Hello? -It's locked.
-Hello? -It's locked, and we're in the future.
This is great. This is wonderful.
This is our house. They have to let us in.
"They" who? Who do you think is in there?
Emily, we just traveled a hundred years forward in time.
Our entire family is dead.
Okay, well, I'm gonna need some answers, and I'm gonna need them fast.
You can't get in.
They keep it locked every day except Tuesday.
Why are you dressed like loony old grandmas?
This must be your Mountain Day attire.
I get it. Fun.
-Mountain Day? -Yes.
Smith College Mountain Day. Happens once a semester.
All classes are canceled,
and everyone's free to roam around outside,
playing pranks or what have you.
Don't you just love all-female colleges and their wacky traditions?
All-female colleges? So women can go to college now?
Obviously. Look at us, we're on campus.
Wow! Women's lives in this period seem pretty great.
No, they're depressing.
I've had several mental breakdowns and tried to kill myself.
I'm a senior. What year are you?
We-- We're from 1862.
Okay, committed to the bit.
Got the corsets on and everything.
I don't know how you breathe in those things.
Anyway, step aside, please. I'm heading in.
You have a key?
I know where they hide it. I come here quite a lot.
You do? Why?
Because I'm a poet.
And this is the home of the great American poet, Emily Dickinson.
So…
Emily Dickinson lived here?
A long time ago, yes.
Now it's all boarded up,
although the college trustees give tours every once in a while.
-I've taken quite a few. -You said you're a poet?
Yes. Trying to be.
Although I have to admit sometimes my brain feels like a black hole
out of which no beauty or truth could ever come.
Might be because of the electroshock they gave me in the psych ward.
Or maybe it's my winning personality.
Tell us, what is your name?
I'm Sylvia.
Sylvia Plath.
Great American poet.
The Future never spoke -
Nor will he like the Dumb
Reveal by sign a syllable
Of his profound To Come -
Colonel Higginson?
If I may request your attention, sir?
Henry. Fist bump.
Wasn't expecting you. Come on in.
Just trying to wrap my head around this here map.
I've never been good with maps.
But tell me, what's on your mind?
You're aware that Confederates are on the march
and that not long from now
the heat of battle will reach the base here in Beaufort itself.
Yes.
In fact, if I understand this thing correctly,
our enemy is coming from right here…
and will be engaging us…
somewhere here.
It's gonna be messy.
You know, Henry…
Sometimes I wish I could just be back
in the comfortable offices of the Atlantic magazine,
giving advice to young poets.
Writing essays about the life of birds seems like paradise to me right now.
War is hell.
I'm right there with you, Colonel.
But what I am asking is,
when battle comes, what would you have our men do?
You've drilled them and tested them,
you've dressed them up like soldiers, but you haven't armed them with weapons.
Are they expected to line up and perish as mere cannon fodder?
The men have been ordered by General Saxton
to reinforce the barricades.
With all due respect, Colonel,
it's starting to feel like the real barricades are in this very room.
The moment Lincoln approves, there will be guns in my soldiers' hands.
But what if that day never comes?
It will come! It will!
But if we move too fast,
we may lose all the ground that we've already gained.
You don't understand how much scrutiny I'm under here,
trying to set up this regiment.
It's like trying to plant a crop that wants to take root,
but it's constantly being pulled up to see how it's growing.
The slightest mistake could send us back a hundred years.
-You can't imagine-- -I can imagine it, sir.
I think-- I live it every damn day.
Well, what would you have me do?
Just go against the president's orders, hand over the weapons?
That certainly sounds like something a radical activist would do.
Well…
I can't do that.
I see.
But…
If somebody wanted to arm these men, I would tell them what they could do.
They could…
intercept the delivery of fresh rifles that's expected today
along the shell road.
They could tell the driver from the factory in Charleston
that they were sent on my orders as a middleman.
These factory workers don't know anything about military rules,
so they'll take a man at his word.
A whole wagonful of guns
would be handed over just like that.
Colonel Higginson?
Yes.
What have they done to my bedroom?
That is not even my quilt.
Your Method acting goes deep.
Did you train with Strasberg in New York?
I hear he hates women.
The wallpaper is faded,
and that painting doesn't go in here.
But the desk is in the right place.
Yes, right by the southwest-facing window.
Wow. Okay.
Just sitting down like you own the place.
This is how I commune with Emily's spirit.
Funny. I'm having a hard time contacting her today.
Well, I'm right here, so…
This should help.
-What's that? -The Poems of Emily Dickinson.
The complete collection was published just this year.
I thought I told you to burn all my poems when I died.
I knew you didn't mean it.
I wasn't gonna let everyone forget my sister.
And now look, in the future, you're actually famous.
Well, not that famous.
More of a local legend.
An obscure, strange female poet who lived a sad, miserable life.
That's not true.
Most people in the 20th century don't really care about Emily Dickinson.
They'd happily leave her poems in an attic somewhere, collecting dust.
But I care. I feel a kinship with her.
She was morbidly depressed. I'm morbidly depressed.
She wasn't. She was not-- I'm not--
Did you know she spent her entire life alone?
What do you mean "alone"?
She was a virgin. A miserable, dried-up spinster.
Never got married, never found love. Hardly even left her room.
The only thing Emily Dickinson did was wear white and cry.
That's not accurate. She almost never wears white.
Emily Dickinson is not depressed. She does not want to die.
She wants to live and connect with the world through her words.
I would argue she died alone in her bedroom.
Okay. I am Emily Dickinson, so I think I know how Emily Dickinson feels.
Your commitment to this Mountain Day bit is alarming.
Where do you get your information?
It's common knowledge.
Emily Dickinson was the original sad girl.
I mean, her life was so awful.
They say she had a love affair with a man,
someone she was crazy about who didn't love her back.
Oh, my God.
-A man. Is that true? -No.
-No, it's-- -Yes, there was a man,
but no one knows who, and it was totally unrequited.
So, I can only assume she wanted to kill herself.
Undoubtedly she tried.
Just like me when I slashed my legs up and took my mother's sleeping pills.
-Yikes. -Okay.
I never tried to kill myself. I would never try to kill myself.
And I was not in love with a man.
-Emily. Was it George? -No.
-Frazar? -No!
It couldn't have been… Toshiaki?
Okay. Lavinia, I have never in my life been in love with a man.
You know, you might be right.
There was a book published a few years ago that caused such a scandal,
it almost didn't get published.
Because in this book, the author says that Emily Dickinson was a lesbian.
-A what? -A lesbian.
No, she was an American.
What?
I'm talking about sex, baby.
She was a sapphic, a homosexual, a woman who loved other women.
Surely you must be familiar. You do go to Smith College.
Emily, is… that true?
I…
Oh, my God. Who?
Sorry, can we change the subject?
I-- Why are we talking about her private life?
Shouldn't we be focusing on her poems?
Do you really think you can pull the two apart?
I mean, where do you think poetry comes from,
other than passion, desire, the darkest depths?
Personally, I think Dante had it right.
To write poetry, you have to be willing to go all the way down to hell.
Okay, your energy is so intense, and this is Emily Dickinson saying that.
"I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed"…
Okay.
…"And sung me moonstruck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead."
Cool. Well, we're gonna go. Hopefully back to 1862.
Yeah, the future wasn't really what we expected.
The future?
Don't you know?
The future never comes for women.
-Vinnie? -Yeah?
How are we gonna get home?
I feel incredibly strange.
That means it's working.
The likelihood of me ever getting out of this bed
just went from zero to whatever's way below that.
They're gonna have to cart me outta here in my coffin.
-In a coffin. -Let me hit that again.
-Nope. It's all gone. We smoked it all. -No, no, no.
-I need it. -We smoked it all.
I'm so hungry.
-Go make some food. -No, you go make some food.
-I will not. -I'm starving.
And I'm a man.
And I don't know how to cook food.
I don't think I like this stuff.
What, the cannabis? Why not?
Because before I just felt sad.
But now I feel sad, hungry, dizzy,
and a little bit paranoid.
You're putting off some dreadfully dreary vibes.
Please leave me alone again.
And when you go down to the kitchen, count the spoons.
Maggie is not to be trusted.
Well, I think I'll just take a little nap myself.
Here's to that.
It's so messed up, man.
I mean, I actually-- I care about my child, you know?
I-- I wanna hold him.
I wanna raise him.
I wanna smell him.
I've barely even gotten to know him yet,
and then this bullshit happens,
and it's just like, what?
I have to go off and die now?
You don't have to do anything you don't want.
Yeah, no, I do though.
It's called a draft.
It's, like, a legal process.
I'm a lawyer, so I know about these things.
Exactly. You're a lawyer, and the son of a lawyer.
I mean, hello. You're rich.
Rich people can do whatever they want.
That's the first law of the United States of America.
I don't know, man. My name's on the list.
Okay. So you pay someone else to call himself by your name.
You can do that?
There's a way out of any situation, if you can afford it.
Yeah, but who could I pay?
Anyone.
That guy.
Or him.
Need another round, chaps?
Make it a double.
The guy's always desperate for tips.
Going rate for draft dodging is 500 bucks. That's like a million to him.
Pretty sure he'd jump at the chance.
Nah, I could never.
Sure.
Let's have another drink and see if you reconsider.
At least it stopped raining.
I don't notice the weather.
Sun, rain, snow. None of it makes no difference to me.
If you're a postal worker, you can't let the weather get to you.
It's all a part of the deal.
Thunder, heat waves, hail.
They won't stop me.
I always make my deliveries.
I admire that.
Sorry. I don't mean to bore you.
-What? No. -I know not everybody's as interested
as I am in the functionings of the mail system.
No, no, no. I love the US Postal Service.
I just-- It's--
You know what? I'm a little tired.
I can only imagine.
Doing this all by yourself.
It's not so bad.
Raising a child.
Keeping your business afloat.
You're a strong woman, Betty.
But these are dangerous times.
And even a strong woman could use a man to protect her.
I can protect myself.
And as for Helen,
I still haven't given up hope that her father might come back.
Back from Beaufort?
-Not likely. -From where?
Henry's in Beaufort, South Carolina.
-I thought you knew. -No.
No, as you're well aware, I haven't had a letter from him in months.
-Have you? -Not directly. But word travels.
He's been down there for a while now with the South Carolina Volunteers.
A part of the Port Royal Experiment.
Imagine.
Black men enlisted in a Union Army, training to fight.
Henry is a soldier now?
That's what I heard.
And if you don't mind my saying so,
his chances of making it back here alive are about as good as…
well…
are about as good as a two-pound parcel being delivered
with only a five-cent stamp.
Great.
This morning we were stuck in the present, and now we're stuck in the future.
Okay, but while we're here…
-I have to ask. -What?
Is it true,
what she said about you loving other women?
It's Sue.
It's always been Sue. I love Sue.
I think I knew that.
Well, now it doesn't matter, because I ruined it.
What do you mean, you ruined it?
I don't know.
Look, I guess sometimes I just find it easier to be in love
when I'm writing a poem than when I'm actually, you know, not.
Well, I will tell you what I think.
I think you are so unbelievably lucky
to have someone you truly love to spend your life with.
If I had that, I would be so happy.
And if that person was alive, in the present,
with me in the here and now…
well, I would run right into their arms and never let them go.
Shit, Vinnie, you're right.
Why did I ever want to go to the future?
I had everything in the present.
I had Sue.
Oh, my God. We made it!
-We're not in the future anymore. -What are you talking about?
We were just in the future.
I just went to the outhouse to dump my mother's bedpan
because my life is a nightmare,
and then I came into this gazebo and started crying.
And then you came in here and started blubbering all about Sue,
and then we actually had a really nice talk.
My imagination is really running away from me.
That's what I was just saying, Emily.
Real love doesn't exist in your imagination.
It exists right here,
in this abjectly horrible place we call reality.
Look, there's George.
George, what's going on?
George, are you okay? What's the matter?
It's Frazar.
-Frazar Stearns? -Yes. Frazar. He--
-He got shot. -Shot?
In the Battle of New Bern, North Carolina.
Frazar is killed.
I guess I did see the future after all.