Poetic Justice

TIFF REVIEW: BY EDEN PROSSER

January 10, 2026

4 OUT OF 5 STARS

Every so often, there will come a film that bursts onto the scene, full-fledged, unexpected in its ability to impress. This, to many, is the beauty of a film festival: these events are, of course, platforms for the lesser-known, the up-and-comers; an opportunity for early-career filmmakers to present their efforts alongside the masters, met by the reception of an enthusiastic studio audience. While this year’s fall festival saw the premiere of many highly-anticipated titles, it was an unexpected debut that ultimately stole the laurel of ‘most unexpected surprise of the week.’ Enter: the latest auteur of the Apatow-Mann clan, 28-year-old multi-hyphenate Maude, whose debut feature, Poetic License, illuminated the world stage with equal parts ‘humor’ and ‘heart.’

Featuring a handful of her young contemporaries and one-half of her famous folks, Poetic License follows uprooted therapist Liz Cassidy (Leslie Mann), whose husband James (Cliff “Method Man” Smith) has recently attained tenure in a new city. As his profession takes precedence over their relationship, and daughter Dora (Nico Parker) pours her energy into rebellious teenage independence, Liz is left questioning her place, her purpose. Auditing a local poetry class seems a harmless way to spend her days; not to worry that she might be the eldest there, the farthest removed from undergraduate life. No, poetry sounds lovely: a fresh start, for a woman without any lingering tether.

At the same time, longtime best friends Sam (Andrew Barth Feldman) and Ari (Cooper Hoffman) are sorting through their own dynamic. Though much fondness certainly blossoms between the two, each opens the film grappling with their unique demons: Ari, loaded and lonely, seeking for more consistency with his friend, desperate to make him his roommate; Sam, relishing independence, striving for a future in economics. When Liz strides into their introductory lecture, it’s infatuation at first sight: the stunning elder piques interest from the both of them, kickstarting a wonderfully complex web of relationship dynamics that, throughout the film’s barely-two-hour runtime, provides the perfect opening for a tragicomedy of stellar proportions.

Everyone loves a good love triangle. There is, after all, good reason for the trope’s eternal persistence. That said, what provides such compulsion to the central triangle behind Poetic License is its ultimate fallibility: the competition for Liz’s interest is, at the end of the day, the pursuit of a prize that will never exist. Similar in such nuance, it is the interplay of each character’s unique dynamic that provides the film with its further strengths. Cleverly-concealed character details, scribed with evident intentionality, line the chessboard upon which each player lands. While Sam and Ari engage in the battle for Liz’s affection, they each unknowingly come into contact with precisely those for whom the consequences will be greatest. Sam’s economics professor? Well, he’s none other than recently-promoted James, Liz’s happy husband, and Sam, curious, clever, is quickly rising to become the class protégé. A high-school senior, Dora finds herself fascinated by the concept of a college party: one that could, perhaps, find attendance from the collegiates—Ari, Sam—likely to bring Liz along as a plus-one. The situational dynamics constructed throughout the script are rife with such comedic potential, paying off beautifully in execution; any writer-to-be simply stands in awe of the seamless manner in which writer Raffi Donatich has set the stage for conflict, comedy, cinematic excellence.

Not only is it cleverly constructed, but the script, too, feels honest, raw, articulate. Donatich—herself a relatively young screenwriting debut—perfectly replicates the voice of the modern adolescent; under her pen, Ari, Sam, Dora feel three-dimensional and lived, the kinds of students one might imagine attending their own local college. A smattering of nerdy excitability; a pushing of the boundaries—one particular scene involving substances is an easy standout—situates the setting easily within the present day. The script knows what it is, and where it is; it’s funny, fresh, and this certainty in its identity provides an excellent baseline atop which the actors can provide their own artistic flair.

While each of the primary trio—Mann, Feldman, Hoffman—compel throughout, it is Cooper Hoffman who particularly impresses. This is unsurprising, for an actor whose catalogue features a smattering of scene-stealing roles; still, Hoffman’s Ari finds himself a charmer of great wit and gravitas. Magnetic from his first scene, he brings a maturity to a paradoxically-young role, standing out in the actor’s oeuvre as perhaps his most effortlessly star-making turn yet. Mann, similarly, impresses in her most nuanced role in recent years; though quieter in emotivity, there’s a level of vulnerability she brings to the role, juxtaposed with the wide-eyed joy brought about via her youthful jaunts. That said, the trio’s entire dynamic crackles with such chemistry; there’s a layer of deep intimacy, absolute trust, that strengthens every moment of rapport, bringing each of the three characters to life, both atop and beyond the page.

Perhaps this is to do with the younger Apatow, the one behind the camera. The status of this debut is utterly indiscernible; no, Maude Apatow is assured at the film’s helm, drawing great humor, excellent performance, and atmospheric elegance  into her inaugural directorial pursuit. There’s a confidence to be felt beneath her touch; a camaraderie, enhancing the dynamic of the younger cast—Feldman, Hoffman, Parker, Maisy Stella—alongside the easy intimacy, and palpable warmth, each time the camera turns to her mother. It’s clear Apatow looks up to her parents, adapting the leadership sensibilities of father Judd, highlighting the onscreen prowess of mother Mann, while coalescing each learned experience into a playful, yet tonally mature style all her own. As a first jaunt, the effort could not be more impressive; one certainly looks forward to whichever effort the multi-hyphenate next finds herself attached to, for, with this early calling card, Apatow finds herself a major directorial force straight out the gate.

It’s no question to deem Poetic License one of the biggest surprises from this year’s Toronto International Film Festival—nor one of this year’s best of the fest. It does, in many ways, feel a defining comedy of the current era, much as her father’s own once had been: whip-smart, effortlessly emotive, equal parts full of humor and heart. This is the story of a modern woman, searching for her place in an opportunity-filled world. It’s a tale of male friendship and fragility, an examination of the manner in which dreams shift and grow over the years. It’s a reflection of a family, and the many ways in which love can grow, mature, and be expressed. It’s beauty, and it’s fun, wrapped in the crispest autumn breeze, ivy-drenched and bold—and, at the end of the day, that’s the most poetic element of all.