A Constant Visual Feast

It is a source of exhaustion to me that critics return from festivals or exit screenings clutching their breathless claims that X movie “destroyed” me; if I had to make my impression of my peers without the benefit of knowing them, I would assume they’re all hypersensitive to any appeal to one’s emotions, no matter how great or small, and easily triggered by the sight of sad puppy eyes. If every film they watch destroys them, then no film they watch really has that much impact on them.

Daughters is an exception that proves the rule. I intentionally dodged around it at Sundance, knowing that any movie about the relationship between fathers and daughters has a high probability of breaking my heart; I watched it weeks ago and can confirm that my suspicions were well-founded. At the halfway mark, when the promise of Daughters‘ premise is realized, my lip trembled, my waterworks broke, and I stayed a mess for the rest of the film. That’s life.

Writing about the film, I opted for a first-person narrative approach; I don’t usually get personal in my pieces, but this felt like the right time to do so. You can read my article over at The Daily Beast.