His Three Daughters 2024

Cast
Natasha Lyonne as Rachel
Elizabeth Olsen as Christina
Carrie Coon as Katie
Jay O. Sanders as Vincent
Jovan Adepo as Benji
Rudy Galvan as Angel

Director
Azazel Jacobs

Writer
Azazel Jacobs

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Grief tears down what we think of ourselves. It’s cruel. It’s harsh. It’s inevitable. It shatters the walls we put up around our personalities that so often reduce us to easy descriptions like sister, daughter, and mother. Azazel Jacobs’ stunning “His Three Daughters” opens with a scene that defines its title characters, then spends 100 minutes revealing how those definitions don’t really capture who they are. 

 

Yes, they are sisters and daughters (and two are mothers). But in the days leading up to their father’s death, they’re reminded of the complexity of human emotion, behavior, and understanding. 

Anchored by three of the best performances in a very long time and a graceful script from Jacobs himself, this is one of the finest films of the year, a movie that moves me so much that I can get emotional just thinking about it. Because it’s not just a showcase for powerhouse acting at its finest. Because it feels true in ways that movies about death are rarely allowed to be.

In that opening scene, we meet Katie (Carrie Coon), Christina (Elizabeth Olsen) and Rachel (Natasha Lyonne). Katie’s arms are crossed—a recurring body language choice by Coon and Jacobs to illustrate how closed off this constant planner is from those around her—as she rants about the fact that her dying father Vincent (Jay O. Sanders) doesn’t have a DNR.

She’s doing all she knows how to do in the moment, channeling her emotional upheaval into action items. (I can relate almost too much.) Sister Christina is more open and warm, facing the hallway down which her dad rests. At first, Rachel seems almost checked out, more eager to get high and check on her active sports bets than talk to either of them.

Jacobs reveals so much about these women through natural dialogue. We learn that Katie is warring with a teenage daughter; Christina used to be a Grateful Dead fan (and maybe wishes she still was); Rachel has been taking care of Dad by living with him.

Coon, Olsen, and Lyonne do the best work of their careers in these complex roles, coming to life thanks to Jacobs’ sharp, character-driven script. All three have been unmoored by grief, not just from what they’re about to lose, but what their reactions to the situation say about themselves.

 

Jacobs deftly avoids melodrama, even imbuing his film with a strain of sharp humor that cuts through the potential treacle. From that very first scene on, we believe Katie, Christina, and Rachel are real, trading barbs and insights in a way that’s as organic and mesmerizing as great theater—given it’s almost entirely set in Vincent/Rachel’s apartment, it almost feels like it may have been conceived as a powerhouse theatre piece.

Having said that, Jacobs makes great use of film language. The sound design will be underrated, whether it’s the always-present beep of the machines down the hall keeping Dad awake or the regular return of the NYC train that goes by the apartment complex. While people go about their lives, these three daughters are losing their father.

It’s also a subtly shot piece, whether it’s the way the hall almost becomes threatening, especially to Rachel, who seems the most reluctant to spend time with her dying father, or the way the light shifts just so in a final act sequence that’s already become controversial. 

I love it for reasons I can’t get into without spoiling. Suffice it to say, it’s not only set up a couple of scenes earlier by one of the characters but it’s what I hope the end is actually like in its blend of closure and life-defining regret.

Saying that there’s an “end” in “His Three Daughters” is no spoiler. It’s a film about death. It’s a film about something that the vast majority of us will have to do: Say goodbye to our parents. They say that something changes in you when you lose your parents.

“His Three Daughters” posits that such a change isn’t merely a product of loss but the introspection that comes with it. It’s not that saying goodbye makes us who we are as much as closing the door forever on someone we love reminds us who we can be. And maybe who we always were in their eyes.