Slated for a mid-fall release, the upcoming film Ted and Sylvia is set to portray the turbulent yet brief marriage of poets Ted Hughes and Silvia Plath. Likely to stir up a decades-old debate tarred by extreme feminism, irrelevant issues of artistic merit, and the question of culpability for Plath's tragic death at the age of thirty, it's sure to be a buzz on the poetry geek circuit.

The romance of Plath and Hughes has perhaps become more legendary than even the poems that made their names worthy of recognition; it has become the stuff of myth, speculation, and even scholastics. Odd as it may seem - after all, aren't most literary types and modern pop icons notorious for leading badly managed lives? - There are camps divided, and like passers-by twisting their necks to gape at a terrible auto wreck, parties otherwise not involved personally with either poet that have most definitely taken sides.

A precis of the relationship would read something like the following: bright American poet girl meets bright British poet boy while studying in England. They dig each other, hook up, get married, and squeeze out a couple of ankle-biters. As fate, or at the very least as gluttony would have it, bright British poet boy turns out to be one hell of a cheating man. Now, add to that equation the fact that bright American poet girl happens to be hopelessly plagued with incurable depression, and you've got a tragedy waiting to be written. Mr. Hughes, either unable to harness the burden of his bride's unfortunate condition, or unwilling to take his wedding vows with serious due value, ditches bright American poet girl for presumably lower-maintenance other-girl. Bright American poet girl, emotionally unequipped to deal with such a loss, cranks up the oven gas and takes one to many whiffs on purpose. According to the feminists, it's Ted Hughes's fault. According to everybody else, Sylvia Plath was a fatal figure haunted by her own emotional demons who was destined for such a mournful end.