Films are often set up to inspire us, regardless of tone. Those facing hardship still navigate the hero’s journey, receiving hard truths and wisdom from others rather than confronting a great evil. As the credits roll, there is satisfaction and relief: it’s over. We’ve won.
Life though, is rarely as simple. When faced with a life-changing tragedy, like an injury, death, or unexpected loss, life keeps moving. We still get up, feed ourselves, go to work, and mumble through as though our world hasn’t just been shattered. Life cannot stop just because we are heartbroken.
Eva Victor’s directorial debut, Sorry, Baby, shows loss and moving on in a way that’s unique and deeply relatable. While Agnes’ assault is the event that shapes this part of her life, it’s not the film’s focus. Instead, it chooses to focus on the seemingly mundane moments: a visit from a friend, going to work, and jury duty. These, ironically, are the moments where Agnes’ pain burns brightest, as she shrinks away and becomes a shadow of herself when she’s reminded of her attacker. Seeing the light fade from her eyes when her former professor’s word for her “extraordinary” is repeated shows just how much this still hurts, even years later.
I have a story like Agnes’. I’m not going to tell it here, and I’m not sure I ever will, but I can relate to her journey. Events like these are less of an open wound and more a series of paper cuts: you forget you have it until you touch something to it. I’m sure everyone reading this has something like this: an unexpected death, a sudden tragedy. Maybe we had time to grieve, but at some point, you have to just get back to work and life. That’s when the new hard starts.
Like Agnes, things get less jarring. You get happier, but the pain of that hurt is a quiet hum in your ears. Even when we see her have consensual sex, get a great job, and have a lovely visit with her best friend, her pain lingers. I once read someone describe grief like being on a raft in the ocean. Maybe sometimes you’re pummeled by waves at first, but after a while, the waves get further apart, and it’s months or years in between. Even so, you’re still on the raft, and every once in a while, a wave still hits you square on. Grief is weird like that. You hear a song on the radio, and suddenly you’re at their funeral all over again. We move on, but still, we remember.
Sorry, Baby, to me, shows the ways that art can sit with us where we’re at, and sometimes where we’re at sucks. But, like Jane, we didn’t choose to be alive and experience pain, but none of us did. I think it helps to know we’re not alone, and even if we have a panic attack in our car, there’s usually someone willing to listen with a great sandwich.