His Three Daughters (now on Netflix) is a damn fine film that functions to remind us that neither Carrie Coon, Elizabeth Olsen nor Natasha Lyonne has been nominated for an Oscar. For now, at least, because this chamber-piece drama seems primed and ready to fill a slot in the best actress category – and maybe even three of them, if the Academy has the yarbles. (And they so rarely have yarbles.) Azazel Jacobs writes and directs this story of three very different sisters holed up in an apartment while their father lies in the bedroom, dying of cancer, a story that, thanks to its extraordinary trio of performances, isn’t likely to fade from your memory anytime soon.
The Gist: Katie (Coon) is the oldest, Christina (Olsen) is the youngest and Rachel (Lyonne) is in the middle. The former two are sisters by blood and the latter is the stepsister, but all their mothers died relatively young, leaving them with just their father, who’s so close to death, he’s hardly ever conscious, and the hospice workers keep saying that today could be the day. Sad situation. Tense, too, since the three women are, well, I dunno if “estranged” is the right word, but it’s somewhere in the vicinity. Christina lives far away with her family, and is the doting mother of a three-year-old daughter. Katie lives across town in Brooklyn, where her teenage offspring give her fits and likely sap up a lot of time, hence why she didn’t see her dad very often.. And Rachel is single and lives right here in the apartment with Dad, where she’s been tight with him through good times, and trying times, like these times right now. What do these women do for a living? It’s never mentioned, and in the context of the great Everything, in which stories about death inevitably must exist, it doesn’t matter in the slightest.
It’s perhaps generous to say these sisters are at odds. Pothead Rachel is hiiiiiiigggggghhhhh a lot of the time (hey, it’s legal in New York now, you know). Type-A Katie is hiiiiiiigggggghhhhh strung (her throbbing forehead vein may have its own personality). And highly sensitive nurturer Christina isn’t as hiiiiiiigggggghhhhh as her sisters even though she’s a recovering Deadhead, although that might explain why she’s a bit of a spacecase (she gives off hardcore day-one-Goop-supporter vibes). There’s more to them than these simple descriptors though, as it is with all humans, but that’s the baseline. The dynamic among them is complex. They’re siblings, so how could it not be? Katie and Christina share a secret gibberish language that tells us they were, or are still, tight; they see themselves as responsible women with families and Rachel as the outsider-slash-freeloader who stands to inherit Dad’s very reasonably priced NYC apartment. They think Rachel can’t take care of herself. But they underestimate how much Rachel ha’s taken care of their father, how deep of a relationship she has with him.
As anyone who’s waited for a loved one to – in the parlance of hospice workers – “transition,” not a lot happens. You sit around and think existential thoughts and ride the emotional rollercoaster. And in the case of these sisters, they reconnect in awkward ways. The drama almost entirely plays out in this apartment, and we never enter the room where their father lies, essentially comatose. Sometimes, Rachel heads outside to smoke a joint and banter with the apartment complex security guard. Katie obsesses over a do-not-resuscitate form that should’ve been signed by now, and argues on the phone with her daughter. Christina worries too much that they’re invading Rachel’s space – this is her home too – and coos to her three-year-old daughter over the phone. The in-home nurse stops by every day; the hospice worker stops by every day. Time crawls. But damn, it also moves way too damn fast.
What Movies Will It Remind You Of?: The stagey feel of His Three Daughters makes me want to rename it Waiting for Godot to Die. It’s akin to a chamber-piece stage adaptation like Carnage crossed with a Noah Baumbach film.
Performance Worth Watching: The NATASHNASSAINCE continues, I’m happy to report. It began with TV – Orange is the New Black and Russian Doll and Poker Face – and if the movie gods are at all right and just, she’ll get an Oscar nod for finding a way to work her signature eccentricity into a familiar character type, and coming up with a woman who’s sensitive and complicated. Lyonne communicates volumes without having to actually say a whole lot.
Memorable Dialogue: A dinner table discussion, as Rachel ignores her sisters to watch a basketball game on her phone:
Katie, with a bit of not-so-subtle aggression: The food that I made. Are you enjoying it?
Rachel: I like the food that you made. Thank you for making the food that you made. The food that you made tastes good.
Sex and Skin: None.
Our Take: His Three Daughters is a single-location, dialogue-driven drama that doles out its fair share of lengthy monologues. And despite its stagey qualities – its tendency to feel very much Written and the characters Engineered so the cast can Act – the film is a deeply touching, frequently funny rumination on siblinghood, parenthood and that strange, almost out-of-body pre-grief feeling. The awkwardness and big-picture profundity of being in the same space as a loved one who’s dying feels otherworldly, which justifies the hyper-reality Jacobs establishes; the rest of the world and all its relative trivialities fall away, leaving you to concentrate on yourself and those closest to you. It’s so far away from the norm, it feels unreal.
How Rachel, Katie and Christina perceive each other and themselves is the crux of the drama. Katie takes on the role of the responsible, pragmatic one. Christina makes sure everyone’s feelings are recognized and accounted for. Rachel is more passive, and unlike the others, avoids going into the room with her father; she’s not trying to escape the situation, but being the one who has the most to lose with his passing, she seems to be set on letting the world spin as it does, because trying to take control of things that are profoundly untenable is a fool’s game.
Jacobs crafts dialogue and characters perfectly suited to his three principals, and the combination of script and performances is calculated to spin off inferences and implications with nearly every line. The film galvanizes itself with two wrecking-ball monologues from Jay O. Sanders and Jovan Adepo, in drop-in cameo roles, cracking the insularity of the sisters’ perspectives and prickly exchanges. The film draws out tension by having its characters withhold emotional overtures toward each other, so they earn their catharsis. Olsen enjoys a monologue that seems to be the thesis of His Three Daughters, Christina sharing a story about how her father, who loved old movies, made a point to explain to her how movies’ depictions of death are always, always wrong. Well, this one gets it right.
Our Call: STREAM IT. His Three Daughters is stagey in a way that some will see as purposeful, others will find emotionally poignant, and others will find contrived and self-aware. I’d be shocked if everyone failed to find it deeply touching, though.
John Serba is a freelance writer and film critic based in Grand Rapids, Michigan.