Sorry, Baby

It doesn’t seem quite right to call a film about the trauma of sexual assault sweet and funny, but Sorry Baby is somehow the kind of film that, as you think back on it, you can’t help but smile. Writer/director/star Eva Victor has created a poem about the pain and absurdity of entering and continuing adulthood, even when things feel heavy and hopeless. As devastating as it can be, it’s ultimately a celebration of resilience.

In her debut feature, which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival and gone on to screen in Cannes' Directors' Fortnight, Victor announces herself as a bright, original voice with a gift for capturing the small moments that define friendships, rivalries, hope and despair. She doesn’t approach this film with bombastic flare, but with a series of deliberate choices that add up before you even notice.

In a cinematic era that’s found character-driven comedy-dramas continually veering toward bombastic cringe, there’s something to be said for the quiet personal touches found here. As engaging as an aggressively uncomfortable interaction can be (and there are still some of those in this film), there’s something to be said for moments that speak to humanity’s closeness and connections. When Victor depicts awkward moments, she uses them to get closer to her characters instead of alienating them. It’s a subtle distinction, but one that makes a world of difference when it comes to delicate emotional impact.

Victor plays Agnes, a talented young college English professor – or grad student, depending on the year – living and working in the same New England college and town where she studied. The story unfolds in non-chronological chapters, each representing a different year through whatever pertinent memories emerge. Title cards introduce each chapter as “The Year With…,” followed by something that could be as vague as “the bad thing” or as specific as “the good sandwich”. These aren’t tidily built or consistently structured sections, but rather moments of varying lengths that have defined Agnes. And the order provides a journey of understanding, rather than narrative trickery.

Naomi Ackie plays Lydie, Agnes’s best friend and college roommate. We first meet her when she comes to visit Agnes a few years after they’ve graduated, and their closeness is immediately clear in their body language. Likewise, we learn about Agnes’s psychological struggles through Lydie’s concern, and about the traumatising crimes of Professor Decker (Louis Cancelmi), which caused them, through reactions when his name comes up.

When we go back to Agnes’s student years, we already have a sense of how her innocence will be shattered. But that also gives us the opportunity to appreciate the optimism and excitement of a bright young literary student as she learns that her ideas are being appreciated. The storytelling consistently works in service of the narrative. For example, Professor Decker’s sometimes awkward, sometimes overly flattering teaching takes on a different context when we know what’s coming.

Victor’s choice to not show the rape, nor linger on its perpetrator, helps keep the focus on Agnes’ life. That’s not to say the movie downplays the impact of the crime, it simply doesn’t allow the man to dominate the story over the life of his victim. Because trauma isn’t the only thing that defines a person. An adopted kitten poorly snuck into a grocery store, an awkward conversation with an equally awkward neighbour, a stranger who shows kindness at the exact moment it’s needed, a moment when you realise a film’s title is simply a bad pun – all these quiet moments of grace and joy help remind us why we fight through the heartbreak and haunting memories.

Reviewed on: 23 May 2025