Sorry, Baby 2025 Review

Sorry, Baby is one of those films that stays with you long after the screen fades to black. It is raw, it is funny, and it finds a rare and thoughtful way to bring humour into something deeply serious without ever crossing the line. This is the story of Agnes, a woman quietly carrying trauma, who has retreated from the world into a secluded life as a literature professor. What sets this film apart is how it lets that trauma speak through the cracks of everyday life rather than spelling it out in big dramatic moments. It never shows the event. It never tries to make you feel anything through shock. Instead, it creates space. Space for grief. Space for healing. And strangely, space for laughter.

Eva Victor is simply outstanding in this film. As an actor, she gives Agnes subtlety, pain, and light. You can feel how hard this character is working to simply stay upright. But beyond that, what really impressed me is that Victor also directed and wrote the entire film. Every moment feels intentional. Nothing is wasted. Nothing is overdone. You get the sense that this story has lived inside her for a long time and now we are lucky enough to see it told.

The structure is beautifully layered. We move through time not in a straight line but in fragments. Each chapter gives us another piece of who Agnes is and what she has lived through. One chapter shows her feeding a stray kitten at night. Another shows her sitting in jury duty, trying to act normal. Another has her trying to explain what happened without saying a single word. It is storytelling through memory, not plot points. That makes it feel more truthful, more human.

There is one moment in the middle of the film that completely caught me off guard. Agnes is sitting in a corner store after a small car accident. She is shaken. The woman behind the counter asks if she is alright. Agnes just looks up and says, something pretty bad happened to me. No music. No camera movement. Just that line, and everything falls into place. That moment says more than a hundred flashbacks ever could.

What I really loved is how this film is not afraid to be funny. There are moments where I laughed out loud. Real, proper laughs. Not because the film is trying to make fun of trauma, but because it understands that healing is never just pain. It is awkward dates, messy text messages, mismatched socks and slightly too loud arguments with strangers in car parks. It is the strange mix of silence and joy that happens when people try to be themselves again after life gets knocked off course. Agnes is not a victim in the way we usually see on screen. She is sharp, stubborn, unsure, and sometimes very funny. She forgets things, she lies about how she is doing, she finds reasons to avoid talking about the past. But the film never judges her for any of that. It lets her be complicated and honest.

The side characters are warm and human. Naomi Ackie plays Lydie, a friend who returns after a long time away. Their reunion is full of tension, but also love. It feels like watching two people who used to laugh together trying to find their rhythm again. Lucas Hedges plays a neighbour who slowly becomes part of Agnes’s world. Their friendship builds gently, never forced, never turned into a love story. It is just connection. Small, slow, real.

Visually, the film is quiet and beautiful. The camera lingers in all the right places. The forest outside Agnes’s home becomes a character of its own. There is a kind of soft rhythm to how everything is shot. Not glossy. Not dramatic. Just full of presence. The music is sparse but thoughtful. It never overwhelms. It lets silence do a lot of the work, which I always appreciate in films like this. Silence can be louder than strings when used properly, and here it is used with great care. The pacing will not be for everyone. It takes its time. Some scenes stretch out. But that slowness is what gives the emotional weight room to breathe. This is not a film that wants to rush. It wants you to sit with Agnes. To feel what she feels without needing to be told how.

The writing is razor sharp. The humour is observational and dry, never sarcastic or cold. The dialogue feels like real people trying to figure things out rather than characters reciting lines. There are long stretches with hardly any talking at all, but when people speak, it matters. What struck me most was how this film allows joy and pain to share the same space. That balance is what gives the story its impact. It never feels like it is trying to fix anything. It is not about answers. It is about being seen. And that is where it finds its heart.

Sorry, Baby is a moving, funny, and beautifully crafted piece of cinema. Eva Victor has created something deeply personal that will resonate with a lot of people for very different reasons. It never overreaches. It stays honest, it stays grounded, and it trusts the audience to sit in the quiet spaces. This is not just a strong debut. It is a film that deserves to be remembered. This is why I rate the film 8/10