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William Shakespeare wouldn’t be wowed by this domestic drama about his home life back in Stratford-upon-Avon. Where’s the action? The wit? The wordplay?

The great playwright’s skill is hard to match. Instead, “Hamnet,” directed by Oscar winner Chloé Zhao (“Nomadland”), uses our curiosity about the Bard to spin a soggy story about love and grief with enough tears to flood the river Thames. Co-written by Zhao and Maggie O’Farrell, this tonally faithful adaptation of O’Farrell’s florid 2020 novel of the same name stars Paul Mescal as Will — the name he goes by here — and Jessie Buckley as his wife, Agnes, pronounced Ahn-yes, although the real person was more commonly called Anne Hathaway. The 16th century’s fondness for treating Agnes/Anne and Hamnet/Hamlet as interchangeable versions of the same name is part of the plot and must be endured.

The tale is set during the years that Will launched his career in London, missed being at the deathbed of one of his children and funneled his guilt and sorrow into theater’s most prestigious ghost story. Mostly, however, we’re stuck at home with Agnes, who spends half the film weeping.

“There are many different ways to cry,” wrote O’Farrell, whose book goes on to list several variations. (The novel is overripe with descriptors, rarely using one word when a paragraph will do.) Buckley’s wet and wild performance shows us each of them — “the sudden outpouring of tears, the deep racking sobs, the soundless and endless leaking of water from the eyes’’ — plus a few others I’ll call the disgorged caterwaul, the furious scrunch and the chuckle swallowed into a choke. “Hamnet” is my least favorite of Buckley’s showcase roles (I loved “The Lost Daughter”), but the dampness of it has pundits wagering she’ll finally get her Academy Award.

Christopher Marlowe truthers aside, William Shakespeare was an actual person who, historical records concur, married a pregnant woman eight years his senior and had three kids: Susanna, the eldest, and twins Judith and Hamnet. (They’re played, respectively, by Bodhi Rae Breathnach, Olivia Lynes and Jacobi Jupe.) Nearly everything else ever written about the family is conjecture spun from the scraps of information that exist, such as Shakespeare’s will leaving nothing to his wife other than “his second-best bed.”

Previous fictions have deemed Agnes a cradle robber or a shrew or the Bard’s secret co-writer. Zhao’s script goes one further: This Agnes is a witch. Not merely in the slanderous meaning, as in a difficult woman (although she’s also that). Buckley’s Agnes is actually magic. She can predict someone’s destiny by squeezing their hand, the party trick Christopher Walken did in “The Dead Zone.” Sometimes she’s wrong, sometimes she fights fate with everything she’s got, yet her faith in her foresight is rarely shaken. Her husband, who would later write witches and sorcerers and soothsayers into “Macbeth,” “The Tempest” and “Julius Caesar,” is taxed by her psychic gifts. He grumbles that it’s hard to open up to someone who can already “divine your secrets at a glance.”

Her ability to see through time and space has somehow made Agnes transparent too. Joy, confusion, fascination and despair take over her entire face instantaneously, turning Buckley’s performance into an acting exercise of being raw and present. (The crooked smile that signifies her unvarnished realness gets wearying.) The plotting doesn’t have any subterranean levels either, trusting solely in its primal display of sweat, hormones and heartbreak. This period piece almost seems to believe Agnes is inventing each emotion.

Will, a tutor, is trapped inside teaching Latin the first time he spots his future bride romping around in the grass with a hawk on her arm. Cinematographer Łukasz Żal frames the scene in a pane of window glass so that Agnes’ reflection ripples across Will’s yearning face, contrasting the earthy enchantress with the indoor bookworm. These oddballs have little in common besides their defiance of village norms and their families’ mutual disapproval. “I’d rather you went to sea than marry this wench,” Will’s mother, Mary (Emily Watson), hisses. (Her gradual thaw is genuinely affecting.)

Meanwhile, Agnes’ most supportive sibling, a farmer named Bartholomew (Joe Alwyn), can’t fathom what Will has to offer. “Why marry a pasty-faced scholar?” he asks. “What use is he?”

Their flirtation — especially Mescal’s dumb, happy, horny grin — makes Shakespeare feel freshly relatable. Perhaps his Ye Olde Tinder profile read: “Aspiring playwright seeks older woman, pagan preferred.” At times in “Hamnet,” 1582, the year of their marriage, could pass for a millennium earlier, a rustic era where neither has anything more pressing to do than canoodle under the trees. Later on, their partnership feels more contemporary, a frustrated writer hitting the bottle while his missus supports but doesn’t understand his work.

That the greatest dramatist of the last 500 years is married to someone wholly incurious about his art is, in itself, a tragedy. There’s a scene in which you wonder not only if has Agnes never seen one of his plays, but if she even knows what a play is. Our credulity would snap if Mescal’s Shakespeare was the slick talker that his early biographer John Aubrey described as “very good company, of a very redie and pleasant smoothe Witt.” But this stammering, rather dull chap doesn’t come across as a genius. He must save it all for his quill.

This isn’t Mescal’s fault. The book’s version of him is pretty much the same, perhaps because O’Farrell doesn’t reveal that this fictional grieving character is Shakespeare until the last page. (Although the title is a gimmicky clue.) At least Zhao adds scenes that show him workshopping his material. The kids prance around the yard quoting “Macbeth” a decade before he’ll stage it and Mescal gets to recite a “Hamlet” soliloquy as a little treat. I enjoyed the unremarked-upon tension of Will returning home from London with a hip haircut and an earring.

The texture of the film is impressive. Żal’s camera swivels around their home, soaking it in like a documentary. Whenever the film goes outside, he and Zhao make you feel the mystical power of the dirt and leaves. The forest rumbles with so much energy that it sounds like living next to a freeway. To keep things feeling authentic, co-editors Affonso Gonçalves and Zhao keep in flukes that other filmmakers might consider flubs, like an insect dive-bombing one of the actor’s eyelashes. The spell of “Hamnet’s” naturalism rarely breaks, save for a couple nice flourishes, like a shadow puppet depiction of the plague and a shot of the underworld as seen through a black lace curtain, a literalization of going beyond the veil.

Meanwhile, the score by the talented Max Richter is made of soft, pleasant little piano plinks and one major if beautiful mistake: a climactic needle-drop of his 2004 masterpiece “On the Nature of Daylight.” That soul-stirring number is one of the loveliest compositions of the modern era, so good at making an audience sigh that it’s been used two dozen times already, including in “Arrival,” “The Handmaid’s Tale,” “Shutter Island” and “The Last of Us.” As soon those violins kick up here, you’re shoved out of the 16th century and feel less moved than shamelessly manipulated.

“Hamnet’s” sweetest note is 12-year-old Jacobi Jupe playing the actual Hamnet. The script hangs on our immediate devotion to the boy and he stands up to the challenge. Unlike most child actors — and unlike his on-screen parents — he never overplays his big scenes. His stoicism is wrenching. Also terrific is his real-life older brother, Noah Jupe, as the play-within-a-film’s onstage Hamlet. In a rehearsal, this young actor seems dreadful. Zhao has him whiff it so that Mescal can say the lines again, louder. But on the play’s opening night, he’s a sensation.

Shakespeare didn’t invent “Hamlet” from whole cloth. He adapted it from a Norse yarn that had been around for centuries, and Lord knows if he was more inspired by his own child or by another successful version of “Hamlet” that played London a decade before. In our century, it’s been reworked for the screen more than 50 times, and mouthed by everyone from Ethan Hawke and Danny Devito to Shelley Long.

Yet I would have been happy watching the older Jupe do the whole thing again for this lively Globe Theatre crowd, the first to discover how Shakespeare’s version will end. As this Hamlet collapses, the audience reaches their arms toward the fallen prince. The actor draws strength from the groundlings and they, in turn, find solace in his pain. That stunning image alone single-handedly captures everything this movie has struggled to say (or sob) about the catharsis of art.

Renate Reinsve is the new face of Scandinavia: depression with a smile. Standing 5 feet 10 with open, friendly features, the Norwegian talent has a grin that makes her appear at once like an endearing everywoman and a large, unpredictable child. Reinsve zoomed to international acclaim with her Cannes-winning performance in Joachim Trier’s 2021 “The Worst Person in the World,” a dramedy tailor-made to her lanky, likable style of self-loathing. Now, Trier has written his muse another showcase, “Sentimental Value,” where Reinsve plays an emotionally avoidant theater actor who bounces along in pretty much the same bittersweet key.

“Sentimental Value” gets misty about a few things — families, filmmaking, real estate — all while circling a handsome Oslo house where the Borg clan has lived for four generations. It’s a dream home with red trim on the window frames and pink roses in the yard. Yet, sisters Nora (Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) aren’t fighting to keep it, perhaps due to memories of their parents’ hostile divorce or maybe because they don’t want to deal with their estranged father, Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård, wonderful), who grew up there himself and still owns the place, even though he’s moved to Sweden.

Trier opens the film with a symbolically laden camera pan across Oslo that ends on a cemetery. He wants to make sure we understand that while Norway looks idyllic to outsiders jealous that all four Scandinavian countries rank among the globe’s happiest, it can still be as gloomy as during the era of Henrik Ibsen.

More impressively, Trier shifts to a fabulous, time-bending historical montage of the house itself over the century-plus it’s belonged to the Borgs. There’s a crack in it that seems to represent the fissures in the family, the flaws in their facade. Over these images, Reinsve’s Nora recites a 6th-grade school essay she wrote about her deep identification with her childhood home. Having grown up to become terrified of intimacy, today she’s more like a detached garage.

Nora and Agnes were young when their father, a modestly well-regarded art-house filmmaker, decamped to a different country. At a retrospective of his work, Gustav refers to his crew as his “family,” which would irritate his kids if they’d bothered to attend. Agnes, a former child actor, might note that she, too, deserves some credit. Played in her youth by the compelling Ida Atlanta Kyllingmark Giertsen, Agnes was fantastic in the final shot of Gustav’s masterpiece and Trier takes a teasingly long time to suggest why she retired from the business decades ago, while her older sister keeps hammering at it.

Gustav hasn’t made a picture in 15 years. He’s in that liminal state of renown that I’m guessing Trier has encountered many times: a faded director who’s burned through his money and clout, but still keeps a tuxedo just in case he makes it back to Cannes. Like Reinsve’s Nora, Gustav acts younger than his age and is at his most charming in small doses, particularly with strangers. Trier and his longtime co-writer Eskil Vogt have made him a tad delusional, someone who wouldn’t instantly recognize his graying reflection in a mirror. Sitting down at a cafe with Nora, Gustav jokes that the waitress thinks that they’re a couple on a date. (She almost certainly doesn’t.)

But the tension between Gustav and Nora is real, if blurry. He’s invited her to coffee not as father and daughter, but as a has-been angling to cast Nora as the lead of his next film, which he claims he’s written for her. His script climaxes with a nod to the day his own mother, Karin (Vilde Søyland), died by suicide in their house back when he was just a towheaded boy of 7. Furthering the sickly mojo, Gustav wants to stage his version of the hanging in the very room where it happened.

His awkward pitch is a terrific scene. Gustav and Nora are stiff with each other, both anxious to prove they don’t need the other’s help. But Trier suggests, somewhat mystically, that Gustav has an insight into his daughter’s gloom that making the movie will help them understand. Both would rather express themselves through art than confess how they feel.

When Gustav offers his daughter career advice, it comes off like an insult. She’s miffed when her dad claims his small indie would be her big break. Doesn’t he know she’d be doing him the favor? She’s the lead of Oslo’s National Theatre with enough of a social media following to get the film financed. (With 10 production companies listed in the credits of this very film, Trier himself could probably calculate Nora’s worth to the krone.)

But Gustav also has a lucky encounter with a dewy Hollywood starlet named Rachel (Elle Fanning) who sees him as an old-world bulldog who can give her resume some class. Frustrated by her coterie of assistants glued to their cellphones, Rachel gazes at him with the glowy admiration he can’t get from his own girls. Their dynamic proves to be just as complex as if they were blood-related. If Rachel makes his film, she’ll become a combo platter of his mother, his daughter, his protégée and his cash cow. Nora merely merits the financing for a low-budget Euro drama; Rachel can make it a major Netflix production (something “Sentimental Value” most adamantly is not).

It takes money to make a movie. Trier’s itchiness to get into that unsentimental fact isn’t fully scratched. He seems very aware that the audience for his kind of niche hit wants to sniffle at delicate emotions. When Gustav’s longtime producer Michael (Jesper Christensen) advises him to keep making films “his way” — as in antiquated — or when Gustav takes a swipe at Nora’s career as “old plays for old people,” the frustration in those lines, those doubts whether to stay the course or chase modernity, makes you curious if Trier himself is feeling a bit hemmed in.

There’s a crack running through “Sentimental Value” too. A third of it wants to be a feisty industry satire, but the rest believes there’s prestige value in tugging on the heartstrings. The title seems to be as much about that as anything.

I’ve got no evidence for Trier’s restlessness other than an observation that “Sentimental Value” is most vibrant when the dialogue is snide and the visuals are snappy. There’s a stunning image of Gustav, Nora and Agnes’ faces melting together that doesn’t match a single other frame of the movie, but I’m awful glad cinematographer Kasper Tuxen Andersen got it in there.

The film never quite settles on a theme, shifting from the relationship between Nora and Agnes, Nora and Gustav, and Gustav and Rachel like a gambler spreading their bets, hoping one of those moments will earn a tear. Nora herself gets lost in the shuffle. Is she jealous of her father’s attention to Rachel? Does she care about her married lover who pops up to expose her issues? Does she even like acting?

Reinsve’s skyrocketing career is Trier’s most successful wager and he gives her enough crying scenes to earn an Oscar nomination. Skarsgård is certainly getting one too. But Fanning delivers the best performance in the film. She’s not only hiding depression under a smile, she’s layering Rachel’s megawatt charisma under her eagerness to please, allowing her insecurity at being Gustav’s second pick to poke through in rehearsals where she’s almost — but not quite — up to the task.

Rachel could have been some Hollywood cliché, but Fanning keeps us rooting for this golden girl who hopes she’ll be taken seriously by playing a Nordic depressive. Eventually, she slaps on a silly Norwegian accent in desperation and wills herself to cry in character. And when she does, Fanning has calibrated her sobs to have a hint of hamminess. It’s a marvelous detail that makes this whole type of movie look a little forced.