‘Monica’ Is the Most Important Film You Can See This Year

The idea of control is draped across Italian director Andrea Pallaoro’s Monica like a heavy, warm blanket—one that can be suffocating, if you let it weigh on you for too long. The film, which opens in theaters May 12, finds its titular character in constant conversation with the things she can manage. Monica, who is played with quiet grace by Trace Lysette, likes to control the things that she can: her tan; her playlist; her every word in a voicemail. She wrestles with these things silently, often with her face half-obscured, leaving the viewer to closely study the intense pattern of emotions that come with every small decision she makes.

Anyone who has ever tried to maintain a similar level of governance over their own life knows that control is a fleeting resource. The world turns, despite us, and events happen that are entirely out of our hands, no matter how much time we spend trying to anticipate them. For Monica, a trans woman who has spent about 20 years away from her family, living life on her own terms, this austerity is cracked with one simple phone call. She learns that her mother, Eugenia (Patricia Clarkson), is dying, and Monica has a chance to do something she never thought she would: Let the universe dictate her choices.

A tender examination of the isolation that often comes with the trans experience, Pallaoro’s film arrives as if it descended from the cosmos, just when we need it most. American politics and conservative social movements have been pushing for this ostracizing, desperate to see trans folks alienated from their support systems. Monica is in direct, urgent contention with these groups, but its politics are understated, despite its frames bursting with introspection and unique love.

Monica, on its surface, navigates the slow and awkward pain of reconnection with her family and ailing mother, and it bores into your heart with stunning intimacy in telling this story. While announcing the supreme talents of Lysette as its captivating star, Monica crafts a resolute portrait of hope in an increasingly bleak world. In that respect, it’s one of the most important films of the year.

Despite all the time that has passed, Monica knows that returning to her childhood home won’t be easy, and she grapples with her uncertainty at every mile marker on her long drive into the past. We’re privy to her private moments, in motel rooms and at gas station pumps, as she wordlessly wears her anxiety over this impending reunion with a marked tension. That silence is a core conceit here, as Monica contains long, intense, emotive stretches without dialogue. Instead, the focus is on the image, which reveals as much of the story as any conversations do.

Central to imaging this journey is the film’s cinematography and character blocking, which are nothing short of sublime, even when there’s no one in the frame but Lysette. Each shot is elegantly composed, the film’s 1:1 aspect ratio allowing for scenes to feel precise and thoughtful but not claustrophobic. This narrowed focus keeps our eyes on exactly who Pallaoro wants us to see, with the director then further concealing faces to sometimes only appear in reflections or from a crooked angle.

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By the time Monica arrives home, we’ve already had a crash course in the story’s distinct cinematic language. Eugenia doesn’t recognize her daughter, and the film never states whether this is due to Monica’s transition, or Eugenia’s brain tumor, which leaves her discombobulated and confused. Rather, Eugenia believes that Monica has come to be one of her caregivers, and we look on as Eugenia and her daughter try to assimilate into being in the same house, wondering if there will be some magical moment of recognition.

Monica is smart to never play into any of the melodramatic sappiness that audiences may crave. Its eponymous character has to decide whether or not she tells her mother about her identity, but the movie doesn’t foist any a-ha moment of connection upon us; this would sack the beautiful work that Pallaoro and Lysette have managed to do up to that point. We know that when Monica arrives home, she’s expecting the worst. And what she encounters is something much more complicated and layered: the fear that a real goodbye may not be possible, and therefore, neither will a genuine reconciliation.

Lysette is remarkable, as we watch her carry this unsureness. Even when her face is entirely out of frame, her performance pulses with empathetic yearning, as Monica explores a compassion from her mother she had not seen before. Clarkson is superb as well, possessing the considerable talents necessary to convey Eugenia’s maintenance of just the right amount of distance from Monica. While too much familiarity with Lysette would hinder the film’s grounded conceit, Clarkson’s performance gives us the unconfirmed sense that Eugenia has some level of knowledge as to what may be happening around her. Even an unforgettable scene, which finds Monica and Eugenia together in a private moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, does not provide a clear answer to the question that lingers over the film. And Monica is all the better for it.

Some of the film’s brightest and most profoundly affecting moments come from watching Monica all by herself. We see her try to navigate a casual date in her hometown, nervously sipping her whiskey, while waiting to kindle a fire that will never start. These scenes are tinged with melancholy and are played with undeniable veracity by Lysette. And though there is measurable sadness in the film, there are also explosions of pure, unmitigated joy. I won’t soon forget the sequence where Monica is preparing to meet her date at a bar, dancing around her childhood bedroom to the viral Romanian hit from the early aughts, “Dragostea Din Tei.” She twirls about, kicking and gyrating, moving her hips to the silly inflections of the song, all while putting mousse in her hair. It’s total freedom and excitement on display, a novel glimpse at a trans woman happily living in her private moments, free of suffering—a rare thing to appear in a film with a trans lead, about a trans story.

In this way, Monica is a novel film. It refuses to explore its character’s desire for acceptance by traumatizing her further. We do not have to bear witness to Monica being deadnamed or misgendered by her mother, brother Paul (Joshua Close), or sister-in-law Laura (Emily Browning). Queer viewers who share difficult or similar experiences with their families will not find themselves triggered for the sake of the kind of cruelty that shocks audiences and wins undeserved awards.

Watching Monica is like taking a deep, full breath, and being able to finally exhale. Only when the credits rolled did I realize I’d been trained to expect the worst from these stories. Monica never deigns to stoop to that low. It understands that a soft touch is necessary for healing, and that the same gentleness can speak just as loudly as any scream.

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