CANNES, France—Jennifer Lawrence has had a quiet couple of years. After her wild run in the 2010s, in which she earned four Oscar nominations—winning one—and led two franchises in The Hunger Games and X-Men, the star has slowed way down. In the past five years she has only appeared in three movies, most recently the raunch-com No Hard Feelings, a delightful turn that showcased her silly chops.
But if there was any doubt that Lawrence is one of the best actresses of her generation, Die, My Love, which just premiered at the Cannes Film Festival, is a reminder. Lawrence gives a stunningly feral performance as a new mother trying to withstand a postpartum emotional vortex in Lynne Ramsay’s new film.
It’s work that evokes the late Gena Rowlands, whose groundbreaking performance in A Woman Under the Influence is an obvious reference. But Lawrence makes it her own. Her innate sense of humor is pervasive even when the circumstances of the film are dire, and she imbues every moment with a combustible mix of sensuousness and pain.
Lawrence finds a worthy dance partner in Ramsay, who also makes a long-awaited return. Ramsay’s last feature was the brutal 2017 thriller You Were Never Really Here. Here, she returns to the unrelenting explorations of femininity she tackled in the likes of Morvern Callar and We Need to Talk About Kevin. Maybe no one does women at a breaking point better than she does.
Lawrence, also a producer, pursued Ramsay after reading the novel by Ariana Harwicz on which the movie is based, and you can see why. Ramsay has turned material that could be familiar into something that constantly dances on the edge of reality, plunging you into the psychosis of Grace, the woman Lawrence so beautifully renders.
In hands other than Ramsay’s and Lawrence’s Die, My Love indeed might have been a little rote. (Its plot evokes the much less successful Nightbitch from last year, also about a mother spiraling.)
Ramsay, who worked on the screenplay with Enda Walsh and Alice Birch, gives you all the context you need in an opening scene. The camera stays affixed in one spot in Academy ratio with a sense of remove as Grace (Lawrence) and Jackson (Robert Pattinson) walk around a dilapidated home.
The place is Jackson’s dead uncle’s. The detritus of a hoarder lingers in the corner, and there’s a rat problem. The circumstances of his death seem grim. But Jackson sells Grace on moving there from New York. She has an office to write. He can record an album.
Soon they are naked, consuming each other, as the sounds of guitars blare. It’s the last time we’ll see them truly, restlessly in love or lust with one another—the plot jumps six months ahead, and they have a baby they first just call “the boy.”
Already you can see how Grace is fraying. She has immense affection for the child, but she crawls among the tall grasses like a tiger hunting prey. The knife she holds to cut a birthday cake feels like a weapon in her hand. Jackson, meanwhile, is less and less present, off doing unidentified work. (Pattinson gets the eye-rolling demeanor of an ineffectual husband even though I have a hard time believing him as a country boy.)
Grace starts to become preoccupied with a mysterious motorcycle rider played by Lakeith Stanfield, who zooms past her property. It’s never clear how much of his presence she’s inventing to satisfy the desires Jackson has stopped providing.
The baby’s presence is a sign of new life, but Ramsay infuses the film with a sense of decay. That’s especially present in a moving flashback featuring Nick Nolte as Grace’s addled father-in-law, the actor’s recognizable growl turned heartbreakingly feeble. Sissy Spacek is similarly affecting as his wife, who is fending off her own descent into madness and is thus empathetic to Grace.
The soundtrack also evokes the dichotomy between vibrancy and death. The sound of flies buzzing is played with retro pop hits ranging from Toni Basil’s “Mickey” to John Prine’s “In Spite of Ourselves.” They play over static, the joy of the tracks tinged that gnawing imperfection.
The music also acts as a tool for Lawrence, who gives her entire body over to Grace, whether that’s her breast dropping milk onto an inkblot or her fingers scratching at wall paper until they’re bloody. She also dances a lot, her moves ranging from seductive to demonic.
Whenever it feels like the plot is verging into territory we’ve seen before, you can just train your attention back onto Lawrence and be completely mesmerized. Her eyes glisten with Grace’s longing, anger, and often confusion, unable to articulate why this is happening. But she also can crack a dark joke, giving life to the Grace that feels just out of reach.
Cannes is a festival where Oscar narratives typically start to take shape, and while it’s far too early to make predictions, Lawrence has announced herself as an early frontrunner. Die, My Love still has yet to find distribution, but it inevitably will get picked up with a big campaign in place. The second coming of Jennifer Lawrence is here and it’s astounding.
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