How do you communicate death? This is the question posed towards the end of His Three Daughters – a rather audacious move considering that it revolves around the last days of a father whose titular daughters have all gathered to be present for his passing.
Set almost entirely within the apartment that is home to dying Vincent and daughter Rachel, the film captures a palpable sense of claustrophobia. Here, controlling, uptight Katie (Carrie Coon playing the modern-day equivalent of her character from The Gilded Age), emotional Christina (Elizabeth Olsen) and slacker Rachel (Natasha Lyonne) are unwillingly thrown together, all with their own personal but conflicting senses of duty to their father.
With its restricted setting and small cast of characters, the film by writer and director Azazel Jacobs, risks feeling stagey at times, as the small dramas play out in the crucible of the apartment. However, the striking camera work, in which the three women are frequently shot in direct, single mid-shots, almost as if they are talking heads in a documentary, creates an uncomfortable sense of isolation.
The family dynamics are immediately clear. Katie and Christina have moved into Rachel’s home and have instantly dominated the space. Katie doesn’t attempt to conceal her judgment of weed-smoking, professional gambler Rachel, literally forcing her out of her own home in order to smoke. Frequently, scenes play out for some time before it’s clear that Rachel is even in the room. This is due to the fragmenting camera work that creates a confessional tone but denies the intimacy of showing the sisters together – an intimacy it is clear these women so desperately crave.
The character work is not subtle. Katie’s obsession with obtaining a “do not resuciate” form for her dying father is controlling bordering on the macabre. Her turning to alcohol while still pouring judgment on Rachel’s substance use highlights her hypocrisy, while also hinting that these two apparently different women have more in common than it would seem.
Despite Christina’s self-appointed role as peacemaker and emotional support, she also uncomfortably goes along with Katie’s exclusionary behaviour. The two sisters occasionally fall into their own (slightly bizarre) language, and routinely refer to Rachel as “she”. As the film progresses the reason for this is gradually revealed, with the title taking on extra resonance when it becomes clear that Rachel is Vincent’s step-daughter.
At its heart, the film is an exploration of family, blended or otherwise. Through the laboured task of attempting to write a eulogy for their father, the three women realise that despite coming from the same home, their experiences of it have been very different.
The character arcs, as each wrestles with the person they have become and the past that made them that way, are not original, with the emotional journeys following well-trodden tracks. However, the cast give it their all. Natasha Lyonne is excellent as the silent heart of the family and Elizabeth Olsen captures Christina’s suppressed fragility nicely. Carrie Coon also fulfils her role in the mismatched triumvirate well, suitably scary as the micro-managing Katie, although the role hardly feels like a stretch for her considerable talents.
In answer to the question of how one communicates death, the film proposes that this is most effectively done through absence. In one of the more “on the nose” moments this is unnecessarily stated through the sisters’ dialogue. Infinitely more effective, though, is the film’s conceit of having the father almost entirely off-screen, both dominant and absent at the same time.
Yet this absence also manifests itself in the sister’s relationships with each other, as they frequently comment that each other’s lives are “not my business” and converse as you would with a vague acquaintance. Ultimately, the film is a refreshingly downbeat and honest reflection on the nature of families, and what being part of a family even means when all members have matured into diverse and full adult lives.
When the inevitable finally happens, the film attempts a brave rug pull with real emotional heft. Characters, and viewers, are left reflecting on what it really means when the time, which had felt like it could go on forever, finally runs out. Although it is sometimes a little heavy-handed, His Three Daughters will get you at the end, which, given the film’s subject matter, feels entirely fitting.
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Shelley Galpin does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
