Italian author Elena Ferrante (a pseudonym, no one actually knows who Ferrante is) has written 11 novels; her four-book Neopolitan series has sold millions of copies, been translated into dozens of languages and was adapted into a prestige TV mini-series in 2018. One of her earlier books, 2008's The Lost Daughter, intrigued actor Maggie Gyllenhaal from the moment she read it, leading her to adapt it for the screen and direct it herself, the first time she's stepped behind the camera. It's a story about motherhood, but not in the typically fawning, admiring tones audiences may be used to; Ferrante's story of a professor, a mother with grown daughters, on a beach writing holiday and her encounters with a young mother vacationing with her family is at best ambivalent about the whole endeavor, at worse outright contemptuous. Starring Olivia Colman, Dakota Johnson and Jessie Buckley, Gyllenhaal's adaptation of the novella (it's barely 150 pages) is not only an impressive showcase for the actor-turned-filmmaker's restrained and nuanced eye but a truly exceptional exploration of womanhood, identity and multi-generational trauma.
Image courtesy of Netflix.
As Leda, Colman is a woman with a past, but one that only reveals itself in bits and pieces over the course of the film; much of what Leda is thinking, feeling or considering remains a mystery for the better part of the film, and it's unclear at first why she's drawn to Nina (Johnson) and her eccentric family. Leda is lounging on the beach one afternoon when Callie (Dagmara Dominczyk), Nina and their extended family of husbands, children, cousins and more approach with an air of entitlement and plans to throw a birthday party on the beach. Callie asks Leda to move from her chosen spot on the sand so that their party can settle in. Leda refuses, the first indication that this is a woman unafraid to take up space, to use her voice, to be present. It's a tense clash over such a simple request, and hints at conflict yet to come between Leda and this big, boisterous family.
But in the midst of the commotion and in the days that follow, Leda and Nina seem to form a sort of unspoken bond. It's a small island, and they run into each other often, each time engaging in conversation in ways that are both guarded (on Leda's behalf) and overly familiar (on Nina's). We learn that Leda has grown daughters, though she's reticent to discuss much about them or her relationship with them. Nina looks to her for wisdom and advice, a young mother just at the outset of this turbulent journey and eager to compare notes with someone who's been there before her. In flashbacks, Leda (played as her younger self by Buckley) is an aspiring translator with two rambunctious daughters and a husband who dotes on her, and yet something is missing. She pursues her career at the expense of her family life, though any guilt she feels is assuaged by the thrill of success and attention she finds in her work.
The longer Leda spends on the island, the more ingrained into the lives of Nina and her family she becomes, at one point making an odd and seemingly inexplicable choice to secretly tie herself to them. It's the kind of choice that, on the surface, seems so strange as to not make sense. But soon her motivation, as misplaced as it may be, reveals itself to be more tragic and illogical than Leda can admit even to herself, leading to confusion, frustration and worse. Gyllenhaal's script smartly trusts its audience to find their footing in a narrative that doesn't always offer easy on-ramps; there's no neon sign here signaling the kind of bond Leda and Nina are forming, no banner declaring which character is to be trusted or not, or whether we'll ever fully grasp exactly what's driving each of their self-destructive decisions. Instead, she leaves it to her cast, women at the top of their game, to interpret this melancholy conversation around motherhood with every nuanced emotion in their repertoire. Where Colman navigates both the regret and self-assuredness of maturity, Johnson balances the sensuality of a woman still very much in her prime with maternal instincts that sometimes surprise her. Buckley's younger version of Leda is a woman on edge, torn between the life she has and the life she's always wanted.
In talking about the film, Gyllenhaal has been transparent about what drew her to telling this story in particular as her first foray into filmmaking. It's the fact that a story like this is so rarely seen on screen, one that allows women to be complicated, complex and flawed individuals who don't always have the ability (or aren't willing) to set themselves aside entirely for the sake of their offspring. Though The Lost Daughter doesn't open itself up as easily as some films might, it nevertheless offers quite a lot worth discovering, a thoughtful (and sometimes devastating) inquiry into a woman's desires, ambitions, doubts and regrets. What's more, it establishes Gyllenhaal as a filmmaker with a clear, crisp voice—one I hope we hear much more from in the future.
The Lost Daughter is now playing at Landmark Century Cinema and streams on Netflix beginning December 31.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xNq9YOfL0Zs
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