“Dying is easy, comedy is hard” — a quote most often attributed to character actor Edmund Gwenn, as he lay dying in bed — has been oft-repeated film and theatrical wisdom ever since.
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| At her lowest ebb, Agnes (Eva Victor) is treated with unexpected gentleness by Pete (John Carroll Lynch), a deceptively gentle guy who believes that a good sandwich can go a long way toward healing one's soul. |
Her film is divided into subtitled chapters. The first — “The Year with the Baby” — takes place in an unspecified time: could be present day, perhaps a bit earlier. Agnes (Victor) is a literature professor at Fairpoint, a liberal arts college in rural New England. She’s smart, sensitive and witty, and lives alone in a big house in a quiet, forested area; her only companion is a gray cat named Olga (likely after one of Chekhov’s Three Sisters).
The film actually opens with cinematographer Mia Cioffi Henry’s lengthy framing shot of this house, during early evening: a disorienting touch that’ll be repeated in a subsequent chapter, with a different house, and a far different implication.
Henry also favors distant framing shots of Agnes, which emphasize her isolation.
But she’s delighted, on this particular day, by the arrival of long-time bestie Lydie (Naomi Ackie). Their bond is palpable, their rapport delightfully uninhibited and bluntly profane; they’re both truly themselves with each other. Victor and Ackie are marvelous together; the latter is a joyful, irrepressible free spirit.
(We all should be blessed a friendship this intense.)
But something is off. Even at her happiest moments — as when both lie down, warmly jacketed, in an open field — Agnes’ giddy smiles aren’t entirely matched by the flicker of wariness in her gaze. A bit later, she comes closest to true joy when Lydie announces her pregnancy; Agnes playfully chats with the baby, lips pressed close to her friend’s stomach.
The two also spend an evening visiting Natasha (Kelly McCormack), Logan (Jordan Mendoza) and Devin (Cody Reiss), all of them former Fairpoint graduate students. Agnes’ presence is reluctant, and no surprise; the grouchy Natasha clearly has a long-simmering antipathy toward her.
McCormack overplays this card, sullenly looking more like a character in a horror movie, than somebody who simply has a stick up her fundament.
Alas, all visits must conclude, when Lydie returns to her life and responsibilities. Agnes’ disappointment is palpable; it feels more like grief.
The narrative then shifts back several years, for a chapter titled “The Year with the Bad Thing.” Agnes, Lydie and the others are graduate students in a group led by Fairpoint literature professor Preston Decker (Louis Cancelmi). He’s innately affable, his manner smooth and encouraging. Agnes clearly is his favorite, a dynamic that Natasha clearly resents.
During a subsequent private meeting in his office, Decker praises Agnes’ thesis-in-progress; she speaks fondly of his first novel. He shows her his first-edition copy of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, and — when a personal matter intrudes — cuts the meeting short.
He reschedules ... at his house. Agnes, naïvely suspecting nothing, knocks and enters.
Henry’s camera pulls back as the door closes: Cue the aforementioned second long framing shot, as day slowly turns to night. (I was reminded of Hitchcock’s similarly silent, lengthy tracking shot that accompanies the third murder, in 1972’s Frenzy.)
When Agnes finally emerges, it’s in a blind panic; she rushes into her car and quickly drives away. The camera, apparently mounted on the car’s hood, holds on her traumatized face ... and she never blinks for what feels like an eternity. (I’ve no idea how Victor pulled that off.) Agnes’ silent distress is heartbreaking.
She rushes to Lydie, confessing what happened. Their subsequent visit to a doctor is ghastly, since he’s an older male jerk. Marc Carver’s insufferably patronizing performance makes the guy hissably callous.
Far worse, though, is Agnes’ subsequent treatment by the two women representing Fairpoint’s disciplinary board. Their bland assurances — “We’re women; we understand” — are betrayed by their reflexive, circle-the-wagons indifference. This scene is even harder to endure than the doctor’s visit, because it also feels authentic.
Subsequent events further shape what now has become a shell-shocked journey. A stray kitten crosses Agnes’ path; a later revelation triggers a panic attack that concludes with the kind intervention of a sandwich shop owner. In a film laden with powerful moments, this is one of the best; the always reliable John Carroll Lynch plays this brief role to perfection.
Lucas Hedges also has a delightful supporting part as Agnes’ closest neighbor, Gavin, whose flustered compassion proves essential at just the right moment.
We eventually return to the present, at which point — finally! — the film’s title is explained, just before the screen goes dark.
Victor’s film will haunt you for awhile. It’s a remarkable achievement for a first-time feature writer/director; her only previous credit is the four-episode TV series Eva vs. Anxiety (which, in hindsight, feels like a warm-up). This is a quietly intense study of learning how to live with something that cannot be forgotten.
I love stumbling across indie efforts such as this one; they’re a reminder that moviegoing can be full of happy surprises.
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