A friend once shared with me: “Good writing … cuts us open. It exposes, in a beautiful twist, the reader as much as the author. And the best writing, following the incision, knits us back together more truly, more fully healed in some way.”
I thought of his words after watching writer, director, and star Eva Victor’s “Sorry, Baby.” Trenchant yet tender, it’s the type of debut that harmonizes the tragicomic into a truthful tune, one which honestly depicts the non-linear path of healing.
Victor stars as Agnes, a university professor who enjoys her bucolic life in academia but wrestles with the aftermath of an unnamed tragedy. The film flits between various periods, from before, during, and after the “bad thing,” as chapter cards refer to it. Still, Victor graciously highlights the deep connections Agnes has with people, rather than solely defining her by her trauma. Friends, lovers, and strangers (played by the likes of Naomi Ackie, Lucas Hedges, and John Carroll Lynch, to name a few) come alongside Agnes, offering the profound gift of their presence. They allow Agnes to simply be, not setting a timeline for her to “get better,” but gifting her with ways to articulate what she’s feeling when words come up short.
The film does not obfuscate the horrors of what happened to Agnes, often ruminating about how such wounds nestle themselves in our minds and bodies. All the same, it is disarmingly hilarious, often poking fun at the ineptitude of the systems around us, from hospital rooms to University HR departments, in an attempt to adequately address transgressions. It’s this balance that Victor’s film strikes so well, and one that makes it feel so remarkably true to life, where we never deal with one crisis at a time.
For the twelfth edition of the Chicago Critics Film Festival, “Sorry, Baby” premiered to a sold-out crowd, later winning the Rotten Tomatoes Audience Award for Best Narrative Feature. Hours before they were set to walk the red carpet and speak at a post-screening Q&A, Victor (who uses they/she pronouns) sat for an interview with RogerEbert.com. In between jokes about Victor’s time being back in the Midwest (“Everybody ignored me [at my alma mater of Northwestern] because I’m invisible to people in their twenties,”), they waxed poetic about the salvific power of seasonal friendships, the eerie and pervasive influence of Lee Chang-dong’s “Burning,” and why besties really should tell each other “I love you” more.
This conversation has been edited and condensed for clarity. This interview contains mild spoilers for “Sorry, Baby.”
I read that Barry Jenkins affirmed your directing skills just from watching the comedy videos you were making. Can you speak more about bridging this gap between what you wanted to achieve and what your technical skills were at the time of making the film?
[Laughs] I didn’t think I had any technical skills to direct based on those Instagram videos. It took a couple of months for me to realize I wanted to direct the film. I didn’t understand what directing a film was. It was the invisible job, and I didn’t know what the day-to-day was, but you have to do everything.
Once I learned I wanted to direct this story, I began to ponder what that means. To start, I reverse-shot-listed a bunch of films to figure out how a person would make a shot list. It kind of works and it kind of doesn’t, but I walked away with this equation of: coverage and the way things are edited equals a particular tone and a particular intimacy. I tried to find movies whose looks I loved. For example, I love the way “Certain Women” looks. There’s a lot of restraint in how the film moves, and it only goes close when it has to; there are a lot of beautiful and sweeping wide shots. I just connected to the simplicity of that. At the same time, I wanted to consider the visual language of comedy films. For comedy, you need to shoot things with enough coverage that you can edit to make things funnier and to pace things up or slow things down.
Creating this film was a journey of understanding how to shoot in a way that allows me to make the film I want to make, one that can accommodate all the various tones. My producers at [Barry Jenkins’ company] Pastel supported me while I shot two scenes from the film, one weekend at an Airbnb with my DP. That was helpful because I got to shoot and perform the bathtub scene a year and a half before I did it for the film. I learned everything about how I didn’t want that moment to look or how I didn’t want it to feel.
I also storyboarded every shot from the film. Instead of writing a heady shot list, I tried to emotionally find the shot list through the images in my head. I would have specific moments I’d want to capture and say, “Oh, so to make that a reality, I need a wide shot.”
Film first, figure out the vernacular later.
Exactly. I also shadowed Jane Schoenbrun, which was legit psychotically awesome. I learned so much about the flow of the set. Prior, I had only been on set as an acto,r which in my experience, I just got to show up, do my scenes, then go. But there’s so much day-to-day work I wasn’t aware of.
A24In addition to “Certain Women,” another visual influence you’ve cited was Lee Chang-dong’s “Burning.” The scenes around hot dogs and lighter fluid felt very “Burning” coded, but your naming that inspiration made me think of other ways that the film could be referenced.
In the film, when Yoo Ah-in’s character is having sex, there’s a fishbowl shot of his face that was on my shot list. He’s looking at a beam of light on the wall, which is emanating from a closet. In that scene, he’s not in his body and feels awkward. He’s with another person, Jeon Jong-seo’s character, but we have no sense of her interiority. That mirrors Agnes’ journey with her sexuality and her body. I think back to that first scene where she’s clearly dissociating while having sex.
In that scene from “Burning,” though, I was struck by how long we’re in that moment and how unromantic it is. I haven’t seen the film in so long, but another visual reference point was when there’s a scene of Lee Jong-su looking at a burnt-down structure. It’s very blue and there’s all of this burnt plastic. That was always a reference image emotionally for me. It was a very moving film for me.
For how lively the film can be at times, you’re remarkably patient with the camera. I’m thinking of how, in the opening, before we see Lydie’s car come in, we sit with these pregnant shots of Agnes’ house. When the cataclysmic “bad thing” happens in the film, you employ these similarly restrained tactics. Can you talk through some of the intentionality with those scenes and how you chose to block those moments, particularly within the houses you filmed in?
Let’s talk about the house! It’s my favorite stuff to talk about, and because you’ve seen it so many times now, we can get into it. The scene of Agnes’ house has always been the first shot of the film for me since I started writing the film. I didn’t think I knew why, but a conversation with one of my editors, Alex O’Flinn, clarified it. Alex is a grad school professor at UCLA, and he said that “the first shot of your film is your film in just one shot.”
That was so informative to me about why the shot meant so much. I remember thinking, “I know what it is now.” Agnes’ house is this isolated, sad, and lonely place that has nothing around it and is unfindable. It’s blue and dark, and the only thing that can penetrate that sort of sadness and isolation is these warm but measured lights that are coming in through the windows. Agnes is the house, while Lydie is this beam of light that’s able to come and also go.
I loved that space too, because the house could house both coziness and terror. Another fun visual reference was the cottage that Kate Winslet’s character goes to in “The Holiday.” A cottage can be a space where romcoms are filmed, but also can hold horrors, and I enjoyed playing with that spectrum. When Lydie is visiting, the house is a nest, but when she’s gone, it’s spooky.
Starting with the house as a first image was helpful later on when we stayed outside the professor’s house for a long time. I hope there’s an unconscious acknowledgment for people where they say, “Oh, this is part of the visual language and the vocabulary of what I’ve been watching.” We stay in places for a while without seeing people. The beginning helps those other parts fit.
I was stirred by that touch of having those two pedestrians pass by the house, too. When I first saw that scene, I remember thinking, “They have no idea about the unspeakable horrors happening to Agnes right now.”
Right, they’re just living their lives. Everyone has a different experience with space. Fun fact: one of those people walking was my stand-in for every day of the shoot: her name’s Hannah, and she’s wonderful. Thanks for pointing that out, though, because there was experimentation in blocking their simple trek. I thought a lot about how long those two should walk, how up close we wanted to be with them, whether we wanted to hear what they were saying …
On the other hand, I loved how, when Agnes finally opens the closet that holds these boots, which remind her of that terrible day, it’s an unceremonious event. For all of the intentionality with which you went about showcasing the various houses and spaces, I loved the nonchalance of this unexpected resolution.
(Laughs) Yes, thank you. There is a real thread of the shoes in the story. I’m not sure if anyone is aware of it. It was a little heavier in the script, but there’s a scene where she’s walking to the grocery store, where she meets the cat, and she’s wearing sneakers, and she doesn’t wear those for three and a half years after.
A24The rest of Agnes’ wardrobe reveals so much about what’s going on internally, too.
I think there’s also something about how Agnes’ gender manifests as a result of the violence done to her. She’s been forced outside of her body because staying in it is too horrible. However, the film also traces her journey of reconnecting with her body, and along the way, she discovers parts of herself. I think Agnes is an androgynous king, no matter what’s going on in her life.
There’s a powerful juxtaposition between the storm of emotions Agnes feels inside and how that manifests externally. You do a lot of intense and masterful driving in this film …
Thank you. My ultimate goal is to be in “Fast and Furious.”
(Laughs) What was it like to pair those driving moments in the aftermath of an intensely emotional moment for Agnes?
Both of those driving scenes were very much Jesus-take-the-wheel moments because there was so much out of my control. Both times, the monitor stopped working, so I was kind of going rogue. For the driving panic attack scene, I had an intimacy coordinator who was very helpful in helping me prepare for that because that scene was all about breath. Honestly, when I watched the playback on that, it looked like I was going so fast. I added a bunch of honks, so it was a bit manmade.
We had two stunt coordinators for each drive, and they helped guide me to make it look like I was going faster than I was. A fun fact: my DP is hiding in the trunk of the car, lying down with the monitor in the nighttime driving shoot. We had shot that scene a few times that day. Watching that scene back, we saw in the background that there was a random car, and there’s a moment when it perfectly lines up. Agnes’ car’s mirror and the headlights of the car behind align to create this light in her eyes and this is the first time you see her eyes after the assault. So everything sort of divinely worked out with that shot.
It’s a complex balancing act you’re doing about how you thread in the humor without doing a disservice to Agnes’ pain. The humor is always done at the expense of people in power, from doctors and lawyers to University admins. Can you speak more about the role of laughter and humor as a force of disruption?
To be completely honest, I’ve tried to write really dramatic things, and I don’t always know how to land the plane. The most cathartic version of this story for me meant doing the thing I would use to cope with it. So much of performing comedy is about saying things that other people want to say. As the comedian, you get to act as someone’s wish fulfillment in a way where you’re naming the thing that isn’t supposed to be named. Working through my frustration at these systems through a movie felt like the right amount of distance, but also had a point of view about everything instead of saying, “This is bad.”
The levity is helpful because it allows people to see things more clearly, and when comedy is heightened, the truth can remain intact as a result. My crew and I did a lot of calibrating about what we wanted to make funny in the edit. That courtroom scene, for example, was written, in my opinion, to be more broadly comedic. But in the filming of it, the emotional threads were getting confused and were becoming a bit more intense. We found a way to keep the funny parts of it that we thought were valuable, because the comedy works when Agnes is trying to deflect. Beyond that, it’s a little bit indulgent.
One of the best bits was when she was called out for crossing out the word “smart” to describe herself and replacing it with the word “tall.”
There was another joke in there where she was asked, “Do you have a romantic partner?” and she said, “No, but I have a really close best friendship.” I had a couple more jokes like that sprinkled throughout, but everyone at that point was like, “All right, that’s enough, let’s get to the movie.”
A24To your point about comedy being a way for someone to say the unsaid thing, I love the role John Carroll Lynch plays, particularly when he says to Agnes, “Three years is not a lot of time” about what she’s experienced. It’s nice to get that external validation.
In retrospect, the reason why it felt so good to perform that scene was the honesty; there was no filler. John’s character is not trying to protect Agnes at that moment, and she can be completely honest because he has no connection with her. In a way, she says her deepest fear and innermost thought is “I think I’m acting weird because something really bad happened to me.” The worst thing that can happen is if this guy says, “You’re crazy,” because the stakes are too high with people who are closer to you. That chapter is a moment where she’s able to have some clarity because of how blunt John’s character is.
I discovered in the edit that it’s helpful to have a burst of energy three-quarters of the way through the film with the introduction of a new character. John energizes everything he’s in, and he did the same thing on set for this film. He’s legendary.
The twin gifts of friends and strangers serve as an anchoring point for the film. “Sorry, Baby” made me think about what it means to be good friends when we grow up. There’s a juxtaposition of those college moments when Lydie and Agnes are always in each other’s presence and how effortless their dynamic is versus how intentional they have to be post-grad.
Right! As adults, we can’t be as spontaneous. We have to schedule stuff.
In working on this project, do you think you’ve come to an answer for yourself of what it means to be a good friend in adulthood?
It’s a great question because friendships go through such iterations. Inevitably, everyone changes, and that can be intense to experience if you’ve grown used to experiencing a person’s witness in one way. It meant a lot to me to have a friend like Lydie, who listens to Agnes very well. It’s a lifesaving thing. The movie is about Agnes trying to heal, and it’s about Lydie being incredibly instrumental to that. The film is only able to handle comedy because Lydie is there. It’s because Lydie is there at the doctor’s with her, and we can find those graceful moments of humor.
Agnes is in a particular chapter of her life where she is very selfish, and she has to be to survive. She is in a state of trying to make it through the day, and for that reason, she is potentially not showing up for Lydie’s pregnancy announcement in the way she needs to. Lydie is a very understanding friend, but she doesn’t stop herself from experiencing the growth she deserves. She, of course, is there for Agnes, but she doesn’t necessarily put her entire life on pause; she leaves, she arrives, she meets this person she falls in love with, and she has this baby she wants to have. I think the best thing you can do for a friend is to do what you need to do for yourself, too.
A24It’s a very small moment, but at the end of the film, Agnes tells Lydie that she can watch the baby for twenty minutes. That lands insanely to Lydie, but for Agnes, it’s one baby step for her to realize “I can see I’m not the only thing that matters anymore to Agnes.” It’s the beginning of a new iteration of Agnes where she can hold others’ experiences and not just try to survive.
Friendship is insane, and I love it. It’s lifesaving, and you can’t get through life without iterations of friendships. In romantic relationships, there’s no guarantee that someone will be there forever. But there’s something about best friendship where there’s no end; there are just iterations. That’s beautiful because we put so much pressure on romantic relationships to be the one thing and to be everything.
I don’t know … friendship is just so powerful and romantic, and it can be so intimate because it’s like the person you talk to about your romantic thoughts. Shout out to best friends.
We tend to reserve explicit invocations of emotion for our romantic partners. There’s an expectation we’ll say “I love you,” for example. However, I feel that with friendships, we often lack that, and we may be worse off for it. That’s why I love it when Agnes asks Lydie point blank, “Will you still miss me?” I wonder if there’s space in our modern conception of friendships to hold such direct intention.
Right? Why do we deprive ourselves of having intimacy and deep love with our closest friends? It’s amazing … you can indeed have it. This is a really nice thing to talk about.
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