Joseph Moser
“Sorry, Baby,” currently playing at the Savoy Theater in Montpelier, is deservedly one of the most critically acclaimed films of 2025. It astounded me with its impeccable characterization, biting humor, sophisticated narrative structure, and brilliant cinematography. The movie is wise but not cynical, caustic but not glib, dark but not depressing, and life-affirming but never treacly. It dispenses subtle insights about friendship, sexuality, trauma, and the costs of artistic and professional success.
This is Eva Victor’s debut as a feature filmmaker, though I had no hint of that while watching “Sorry, Baby.” She also wrote the screenplay and stars in the film as Agnes, a writer and teacher who, as the film opens, reunites with her best friend, Lydie (the luminous Naomi Ackie, of “Mickey 17”). Several years earlier, the two women were graduate creative writing students together in a coastal New England university town. Lydie has since moved to New York City, come out as gay, and got married. Agnes still lives in the same town; she has succeeded professionally while mostly hiding a traumatic experience during graduate school that only Lydie fully understands.
The friendship of Agnes and Lydie is a wonder to behold. From their raw and cheeky opening conversation to their tender final exchange, they captivate with their eccentricity, wit, and devotion. Like any pair of close friends, they make mistakes and step on each other’s toes, but they know how to laugh and grieve together — and find sanctuary in their bond in life’s direst moments. A case in point is the scene in which the two have dinner with graduate school friends and quickly find that they now have little in common with their former peer group. When a frenemy makes a jealous comment about Agnes that unintentionally recalls the latter’s trauma, Lydie surreptitiously reaches out at the perfect moment to comfort Agnes. This gesture, and the looks on the two friends’ faces, captures the essence of their relationship.
Perhaps if Lydie had her way, she would be more open and public about Agnes’s trauma and post-traumatic condition, but she respects her friend’s wishes and does what she can to shield her. At the same time, Lydie does not dance around the issues Agnes faces. When Lydie half-jokingly tells her friend, “Don’t die,” she acknowledges the gravity of what Agnes is enduring and lets her know how much she cares. If everyone had a friendship like theirs, the world would be a less desolate place, and indeed, watching Agnes and Lydie interact could restore some of your faith in humanity. It did that for me. I found these characters so compelling that I was riveted and heartened by watching them read great books in several scenes.
To speak directly of the so-called “bad thing” Agnes experiences — and continues to re-experience, in the way trauma unfolds — might trivialize it. Therefore, I’ll avoid that, particularly since the film takes exceptional care in this regard. As director, Victor captures the traumatic event with such restraint that viewers must imagine it for themselves, making it all the more unsettling while avoiding the least hint of exploitation. The result is absolutely chilling, forcing viewers to navigate trauma without the anesthetizing power trip of voyeurism.
The sensitivity of the filmmaking here is on par with Sarah Polley’s “Women Talking” and Ally Pankiw’s underrated “I Used to Be Funny,” both of which also center on women coping with trauma. Just as the most ethical and intelligent war films explore the aftermath of combat, these three films reveal the emotional contours of post-trauma life.
Agnes finds an outlet for her confusion, pain, and sense of betrayal by confiding in Lydie, while the health care system and the administration of their graduate school compound her victimization through callousness and inaction. The film has a lot to say about the ways in which vulnerability can help creative people thrive but also deepen their suffering. To underscore Agnes’s disorientation and long, halting journey toward healing, Victor and her cinematographer, Mia Cioffi Henry, make impactful use of images of empty space and static long takes of homes. The filmmakers invite viewers to contemplate the places that scar and sustain the main characters and to develop profound empathy for them.
Because of their courage, sensitivity, and insight, some narratives can nudge us toward being gentler, more humane people, and “Sorry, Baby” is one such story. The fact that it is also a beautifully realized aesthetic work should serve as extra incentive for folks to seek it out in the theater immediately. This is a film to cherish and to revisit in years to come.
“Sorry, Baby” plays at the Savoy Theater in Montpelier through Aug. 14.
