RATING 3.5 out of 5

It’s a tough, tough world out there. Idealism seems, perhaps, a relic of the past; recent cinematic efforts largely falling into one of two distinct camps: ‘reflective,’ or ‘escapist.’ It is thus a breath of fresh air whenever an upbeat, lighthearted feature finds itself injected into the cultural canon—think this summer’s Superman, or 2023’s The Holdovers: nostalgia-laden pieces hearkening—in tone, in theme—to greener days of yore. Returning to the silver screen after a fifteen-year hiatus, James L. Brooks’s Ella McCay seems another welcome entry into this exclusive coalition. Low on stakes, heavy on interpersonal dynamics, balanced by a quirky script and a deft command of the actor’s craft, Ella McCay is a jaunty splash back into the late-’80s-to-early-aughts studio-comedy sphere—one whose witty wordplay, (Wes-)Andersonian delivery, and colourful cast of characters find their way to shine upon the silver screen. 

As the eponymous Ella, Emma Mackey holds the honour of pioneering a character around whom the film, truly, is anchored. Mackey—a gleaming talent in this generation’s ever-impressive pool—rises skillfully to the occasion. Though Brooks’ dialogue comes with its own set of quirks—an unusual cadence; mile-a-minute delivery; a sweeping sense of intellect, seeped through each and every line—Mackey chews her scenes with immaculate dexterity. One simply cannot look away; she presents a stunning force, commanding every moment she’s onscreen. In the hands of a lesser actor, this might’ve been the place in which the film may have fallen apart—and yet, under Mackey’s capable command, Ella McCay, the character, becomes not simply an amalgamation of characteristics, dialogue, lifted from a page—but a memorable, unique archetype all her own. 

Joined by some of the most revered voices of the past few generations, Mackey finds herself acting toe-to-toe with some of the biggest in the business: Jamie Lee Curtis, whose Aunt Helen produces another comedically-intense, scene-stealing notch for the actor’s belt; Albert Brooks, a well-meaning, if people-pleasing governor who acts, impressively, as both mentor and foil; Kumail Nanjiani, whose chauffeur/guard-hybrid offers a grounding everyman, a semblance of audience surrogate through whom the film finds purchase. It is a credit to Mackey, above all, that her Ella not only manages to match, but rise above these storied surroundings: for in a cast of crafted excellence, maintaining the spotlight’s fickle pull is a deft accomplishment indeed.

Ella McCay is a brilliant woman. She is driven; she is quirky. She loves, and loves too hard—loves her aunt, her job; the populace whose lives she so wishes to improve. She’s singular: unashamed to share her truth, even in the most inopportune of moments. Above all, she is entirely herself. Such qualities coalesce into a protagonist whose memorability not only cements her as a Brooks-exclusive standout, but leaps beyond the screen, demanding recognition in the eternal cinematic canon. The film is at its best when focusing on Ella, and the ways in which a strong personality can find challenge, be it via relationship—the return of an estranged father; the gradual dissolution of a high-school beau—or the wonder, and pressure, of stepping into a dream: the seat of governor, at only 34 years old. One cannot tear their gaze away, compelled by the assured confidence with which this woman steps into her world.