My first reading of Agnes (played by Eva Victor) was that of a buoyant 30-something person struggling to hold on to her twenties, shirking responsibility of a long-term relationship (or anything that we consider ‘grown-up’), sleep-walking through a listless mid-career, and probably too afraid to leave the comfort of her surroundings. Living in a small home in New England, she’s visited by her best friend and former house-mate, Lydie (Naomie Ackie), a writer in New York, working on her next book. It appears some time has passed since they last met. As they catch up, Lydie talks about her book, and Agnes deflects any conversation about herself. I braced myself for a film that ends with Agnes acting like a responsible adult, exiting her dream world.

In an earlier portion of the film when she and Lydie join their college batch-mates for dinner, everyone discusses the horror of their Masters’ thesis. It’s revealed over here that Agnes is, in fact, a faculty at the same Liberal Arts’ college. And while everyone shares their experience, Agnes remains quiet. One registers the hesitation on her face, which becomes suffocating when she’s goaded by a batchmate, Natasha (a wonderfully abrasive Kelly McCormack), to talk about her experience.

Written and directed by Victor, the film cuts to a flashback – the year when Agnes, Lydie and her batchmates were pursuing their Masters’ in English literature. Mentored by a young professor Preston Decker (Louis Cancelmi), we see Agnes is among the brightest in her class. There’s a scene here that really sold the movie to me – when Agnes and Lydie discuss if Preston might be interested in her. Agnes hopes not, because it might invalidate any appreciation she got from him for her thesis. Did he really like her thesis? Or was he lauding it because she’s attractive? How does one even begin to separate the subjective from the objective in this, especially in the head of a writer, riddled with low self-esteem and an impostor syndrome. 

Hollywood has done some excellent work in the post-MeToo era, in films like Promising Young Woman (2020), Fair Play (2023) and shows like Unbelievable (2019) and I May Destroy You (2020). 

The constant vigilance women have to keep, the sudden mention of the ex-wife, the last-minute text when the venue of a meeting shifts from an official space to someone’s home. Are they being paranoid? Are they being ‘difficult’? Are they being unfair to the men? Many other films and shows before Victor’s have examined these questions – and come to tragic conclusions (how most perpetrators talk the talk about allyship and equal rights – and forget their manners once they’re alone with women they fancy).   

What’s interesting about Sorry, Baby is how non-dramatically the central moment of the film (the sexual assault) is depicted, and how the stylistic choice makes it that much more devastating. The camera from across the street sees Agnes walk into Preston’s home – and the background light transitions from evening turns to dusk to night. The lights come on, the front door opens – and Agnes walks out. The dynamic is awkward as she rushes out, and Preston simply stands at the door without trying to stop her. Victor’s film doesn’t show the assault, but the confusion on Agnes’ face is for everyone to see. It’s only when she gets home, and describes the chain of events to Lydie, is when we learn about what happened.

Victor writes the film in chapters – probably a year apart ('The year of the really bad thing', 'The year with the good sandwich', 'The year with the baby'). And what’s sublime about the film is how it is able to mine the aftermath of the sexual assault for dark comedy. The indifference of the medical professional examining Agnes for the sexual assault is almost borderline satire, just the deadpan way he asks the routine questions to survivors, which has extinguished any last bit of humanity in the person. 

But I laughed out the loudest when two women accost Agnes, after she'd just about entered the university’s reception area, presumably to report the incident. They take her aside, and tell her how they’re cognisant of how serious the situation is. They state a technicality saying how Preston handed in his resignation half an hour before Agnes filed her complaint to the college authorities, so he’s no longer an employee of said institution when Agnes’ complaint comes in. And thus, it’s no longer a matter falling within the university’s purview. They might be feigning concern for Agnes, but they only represent the university. It’s an ironic consequence of a tragedy, where an institution tries to adopt a path of least resistance, afraid of the scandal.

Victor’s film is minutely observed, and luminously written – in the way it plots Agnes’ life after an incident that robs her off all her ambition and joy. Like the way she tries to articulate why she didn’t file a police complaint against the man before jury duty. “I want him to change and not do it to any other person,” she says out loud, surprising everyone with her large-heartedness. Her excellent judgement results in the lawyer and judge concluding she should be excused from jury duty. 

I really enjoyed how Victor writes the conversations between Agnes and Lydie – how perfect it sounded. It’s when the film begins to mimic a fantasy or a wish-fulfilment. Also, Agnes’ dynamic with her neighbour, Gavin (a superb Lucas Hedges cameo) is also spotless. An underconfident young man himself – he uninvites himself from a possible social situation, simply to save himself from a potential rejection by Agnes. The bond between Agnes and Lydie reminded me of another film, Never Rarely Sometimes Always (2020) – on the all-encompassing, nurturing essence of female friendships. While going through the end credits, I noticed that both films had the same producer – Adele Romanski, and it made a lot of sense.

But what affected me most is the climactic monologue, where Agnes is talking to Lydie’s infant daughter while babysitting her. It’s a bittersweet, cathartic monologue that tells us how far Agnes has come, rebuilding her life piece by piece. She’s wise enough to know hers won’t be the last case of assault. And while her life was blown to smithereens, the outside world simply carried on. In such a world, Agnes has found her weapon of choice: compassion.

*Sorry, Baby is playing in select theatres.

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