His Three Daughters: Review
Family is a tapestry woven from shared experiences, but also from deep-seated tensions and unspoken histories. In His Three Daughters, writer-director Azazel Jacobs takes us into this emotionally charged terrain with remarkable sensitivity and wit, exploring the complexities of family dynamics as three sisters gather to confront the imminent death of their father. The result is a quietly powerful film that speaks to the ways grief, memory, and long-held resentments can collide when we least expect it, forcing us to reckon not just with loss but with the relationships we’ve taken for granted.
Carrie Coon, Elizabeth Olsen, and Natasha Lyonne anchor the film with performances that are raw, layered, and achingly human. Each portrays a sister grappling not only with the impending death of their father but also with the lingering weight of unresolved childhood grievances. As they come together in their father's cramped New York City apartment, the air is thick with the kind of tension that only family can summon—where every word, glance, and gesture carries a history of meaning. Jacobs doesn’t give us neat, sentimentalized depictions of sisterhood. Instead, he offers something much truer: a mess of emotions, where love and resentment are inseparable, and old wounds resurface when the people who know you best are at your most vulnerable.
Katie (Coon) is the oldest, a woman who, on the surface, seems to have it all together. She’s practical, sharp, and fiercely protective of her father. But as the film unfolds, it becomes clear that her need for control is less about responsibility and more about avoiding the uncomfortable truths simmering beneath her stoic exterior. In contrast, Christina (Olsen) has built a life on the opposite coast, one seemingly bathed in a sunny Californian optimism that grates on her sisters. She’s a picture of ease, of trying to maintain harmony, yet even she can’t escape the undercurrent of judgment and disconnection that permeates their relationship. And then there’s Rachel (Lyonne), the youngest, who stayed behind to care for their father, a role that’s both a source of pride and resentment.
Jacobs crafts the tension between these three women with precision, using the tight quarters of the apartment to mirror the emotional claustrophobia that grips them. The film plays like a slow unraveling, with each interaction peeling back another layer of unresolved conflict. There’s an intimacy here that feels almost intrusive, as if we’re eavesdropping on conversations not meant for outsiders. But this is also where the film finds its beauty—within the raw, unpolished exchanges that make up the fabric of familial love and discord.
What’s remarkable about His Three Daughters is how it balances the deeply personal with the universal. Yes, these are specific characters with distinct histories, but the emotions they navigate—grief, guilt, frustration, and ultimately, forgiveness—are ones that anyone who has faced the death of a loved one will recognize. Jacobs doesn’t shy away from the discomfort of these moments. Instead, he leans into them, allowing the audience to sit with the awkward silences, the cutting remarks, and the half-hearted attempts at reconciliation that make up so much of family life.
The film’s pacing is deliberate, reflective of the slow passage of time when waiting for the inevitable. Yet within this quiet, there is a richness—a deep well of emotion that builds as the sisters confront not only their father’s mortality but their own. Jacobs avoids melodrama, choosing instead to focus on the small, intimate moments that make the final act so devastatingly real. It’s in the mundane—sharing a meal, folding laundry, sitting in silence—that the enormity of loss becomes most palpable.
But the heart of His Three Daughters lies not in death itself, but in the living—those left behind, grappling with what it means to move forward. The sisters, in all their flawed humanity, must face the reality that the family they grew up with no longer exists in the same way. The death of their father marks the end of an era, a closing chapter on a shared history that, for all its difficulties, bound them together. And in the absence of that anchor, they are left to redefine what family means in a world without him.
This is where Jacobs’ film resonates so deeply: in its recognition that family is not just a source of comfort but also of conflict, a mirror reflecting both our best and worst selves. The sisters’ journey is not about finding closure, but about learning to live with the messy, unfinished business that life—and death—leaves behind. It’s about understanding that the people we love are often the ones we hurt the most, and that forgiveness, if it comes at all, is a slow, painful process.
His Three Daughters stands as one of the year's finest films, not due to any sweeping revelations, but because of its unflinching honesty. It quietly captures the devastation of loss—how it breaks us apart, yet also, in rare moments, pulls us back together. The film’s power lies in its raw portrayal of family ties, which serve as both a source of strength and a burden we must carry. This is a film that deserves to be seen, inviting more viewers to experience its profound emotional depth and deeply human story.