SORRY, BABY

Five-plus months out from the year’s inaugural cinematic showcase, one independent premiere has maintained quite steady interest. Praise, heaped from those fortunate to catch its entrance; buzz, building as the months progress. This is, of course, in reference Eva Victor’s breathtaking debut, Sorry, Baby: an oft-heartwarming, unflinchingly authentic glimpse into one’s attempt to piece themselves together following a psyche-shattering sexual assault. Throughout an impressively-indiscernible 103 minutes, triple-threat Victor—writer, director, performing lead—guides one through an exploration of what it means to be human, exploring the many ways in which trauma impacts one’s day-to-day—and the various manners in which one may begin to heal. Here, there is no ultra-dramatization, no silver-screen glamour: instead, a gleaming thread of veracity underscores each moment, the sheer humanity of Victor’s characters delivering a narrative that lingers far beyond the credits’ roll.

Referred to, for much of the film’s runtime, as simply “The Bad Thing,” the assault—through a persistent simmer beneath the current of the narrative—is dampened in potency. Instead, it is the day-to-day of Agnes (Eva Victor) that takes centre stage: a deeply human, and unquestionably familiar, exploration of mundanity. “The Bad Thing” has happened, and yet life still goes on; the question, begged by Victor, is instead, ‘how does one forge forward?’ While a different film may fixate on a tragic aftermath, exaggerating trauma to a point of cinematic extreme, Victor understands that healing is a spectrum; that personhood is nuanced—and that coping may take many forms. For Agnes, hope, career excitement, are subtly melded into a (perhaps-over)reliance on sardonic humour. Laboured breathing, triggers, dismay: they are, of course, natural, and they do, in moments, happen. That said what sets the feature apart is Victor’s willingness to sit in the mundanity of each moment. Yes, oscillations from the baseline will—and do—occur. Still, Agnes is still Agnes. Her life is just that: life. In its depiction of progression, Sorry, Baby is imbued with a semblance of, of all things, lingering hope.

Perhaps that is what permits the film to deftly tread the line between genuine comedy and deeply affecting drama. Bursting onto the scene with what is, perhaps, the year’s most exquisitely-penned script—wickedly clever, biting in the most marvellous of ways, and yet, as aforementioned, deeply, deeply human—Victor confidently introduces themselves into the festival canon (and the wider world). They seem almost a second coming of Gerwig, perhaps with shades of Waller-Bridge: an assured debut for a multi-hyphenate, and perhaps the breakout voice of this next half of the decade. It isn’t simply fresh; no, it is one capable of delivering a thoughtful perspective, a modern stance, delivering efficacious precepts with honesty, authenticity, and a gentle simplicity that can’t help but evoke such heart—nor such heartbreak.

Victor’s strength isn’t simply behind the lens; no, they shine onscreen, delivering an effortlessly captivating performance, one that feels lived in, multifaceted, from the first giddy cackle, the earliest tight hug. They’re rivalled by a supporting cast so talented, it’s near-impossible to select a standout: best friend Lydie (Naomi Ackie) injects such light, such levity, in her brilliant, oh-so-supportive best-friend role; bright-eyed next-door neighbour Gavin (Lucas Hedges) is a conduit for many a chuckle as his awkward antics morph into endearment. What is fascinating, however, is the juxtaposition between the unfettered humanity, the nuance, of lead Agnes, and the almost-archetypical nature of those who surround them. Though captivating in their own right, there is a near-indiscernible exaggeration to the primary characteristics of Agnes’ contemporaries. The ‘supportive, quirky best friend’; the ‘obsessed boy next door’; the ‘jealous academic rival’: each cast member, though portrayed wonderfully, shines in sheer simplicity. Incredibly, this makes Agnes’ protagonist all the more compelling: yes, she’s quirky, but she’s multifaceted, authentic, a depiction that stands out in the colourful side cast, that emphasizes not a trait, but an ultimate humanity—truly excellent character writing, and a creative decision that simply elevates the effectively of Victor’s film.

Inviting viewers into Agnes’ life near the conclusion of the narrative—allowing us to see her as she is, impose our assumptions, upon a post-traumatic, healing figure—is an inspired decision, one that enhances the impact of “The Bad Thing” when we eventually flash back. A subtly non-linear storytelling sequence contributes narrative intrigue, without ever feeling convoluted in execution; no, the full-length chapters instead divide the film into digestible segments, permitting for absolute tonal impact as the years shift, Agnes undergoing shifts to their personal—and professional—being. An excellently-scribed courtroom sequence injects a dose of humour, a sense of visual-verbal harmony that stands out in its brilliance. The morph from prototypical jury-duty discomfort to a more poignant acceptance of their trauma almost slips by without notice; it’s deft, Victor’s pen, exuding emotive evocation with an impressive subtlety—particularly for a debut. Snippets of exaggerated humour (burn the office!) are laden in truth (of course that’s the first impulse)—yet packaged in arc-deepening sequences that pack a weighty punch. Is one to smile? Chuckle? Feel a sense of catharsis? Sob? It is quite the feat, that Victor can induce all four—often, all within a single sequence.

Perhaps the only ‘flaw’—if one could even call it that—lies in an interaction, deep in the film, in which Agnes is inquired about her (lack of) desire to have children. It is met with, surprisingly, incredulity: insistence, from the conversation partner, that it’s an impossibility. All women come around, he claims, to wanting children one day; Agnes’ uncertainty belies a hidden desire that will, by him, reveal itself. In a film so in-touch with personhood, independence, the struggle for place; a film about self-worth, and healing in the wake of trauma, it simply feels out-of-place. Is it not enough, to let Agnes believe in their own impulses? If this were presented as a cautionary moment, a red flag, a ‘what not to do,’ one might would be more willing to glance past it. Alas, the statement is never once confronted; the character remains revered; leaving it a baffling inclusion to such an otherwise-open-minded effort.

That said, if there is but one spoken line—in 103 minutes’ worth—upon which to snag, that certainly speaks to the overall effectivity of Victor’s script. On a whole, it’s stellar: honest; timely; wholeheartedly essential. Through Sorry, Baby, Victor confronts a very real, weighty topic in a manner that has never before been done—and pulls it off with delicacy, grace. As the chapters edge towards the eponymous epilogue, bringing Agnes face to face with a titular infant—to which she can soliloquize, offering, perhaps not advice, but support: a gentle smile, an honest wish, an apology for the world into which the child was born—it begins to seem as though the words of Agnes—and through her, Eva Victor—are those we might all crave. There may be ‘Bad Things’ ahead. That said, life will not stop—it will go on, and we must not lose sight of the fact that, though not all good, it’s also not all bad. We are, like Agnes, multifaceted: quirky, cynical, brilliant imperfect, human. We can, and will, find our way through—and that, it seems, is something truly beautiful.