Eva Victor is a name that won’t be unfamiliar for long. The writer-director-star of Sorry, Baby makes an impressive big-screen debut, bringing a distinct voice that fuses irony, vulnerability, and sharp humor into a compellingly unique cinematic experience. This Sundance-premiering film, while embracing some recognizable indie hallmarks, stands out as a disarmingly intimate, honest, and darkly funny take on trauma and recovery.

For those familiar with Victor’s online comedic presence, Sorry, Baby offers something deeper: a story that balances its wit with a genuine emotional core. The film seamlessly blends heartbreak and humor, finding warmth and levity even in its darkest moments. While comparisons can be drawn to the works of Greta Gerwig, Phoebe Waller-Bridge, and even early Noah Baumbach, Victor’s voice is refreshingly distinct—less caustic, more nuanced, and deeply attuned to the intricacies of modern female friendships.

Rather than presenting healing as a linear journey or a puzzle to be pieced together, Sorry, Baby unfolds in five non-chronological chapters, spanning different years of Agnes’ life. Victor plays Agnes, a literature graduate student-turned-professor at a picturesque New England university. She is witty and reserved, with a deadpan delivery that conceals flickers of raw vulnerability.

Her closest confidante is Lydie (a luminous Naomi Ackie), her best friend from grad school, who visits Agnes in their former shared home. Lydie, now living in New York with her partner, remains Agnes’ anchor. Their interactions—full of teasing, banter, and deep, unspoken understanding—bring the film its most joyous and heartfelt moments. The chemistry between Victor and Ackie is effortless, exuding the kind of real-life connection that is rarely captured so organically on screen.

It isn’t long, however, before the specter of Agnes’ past begins to surface. At a dinner party hosted by an old classmate (Kelly McCormack, in a biting, hilarious turn), the mention of her former thesis advisor, Professor Decker (Louis Cancelmi), visibly unsettles her. A subtle but powerful gesture—Lydie’s reassuring hand squeezing Agnes’ leg under the table—speaks volumes.

The subsequent chapters gradually reveal the truth behind Agnes’ trauma. Through flashbacks, we see her professional admiration for Decker gradually morph into something darker. Victor chooses not to show the assault itself, instead depicting the house where it takes place in a series of exterior shots as night falls. The restraint in this approach is both effective and a bit overly calculated.

The film’s most devastating scene comes in its aftermath: Agnes sitting in her bathtub, relaying every painful detail of the assault to Lydie over the phone. Filmed in close-up, Victor’s performance is mesmerizing—her voice a delicate mix of shock, sorrow, and disbelief.

One of Sorry, Baby’s greatest strengths is how it portrays recovery not as a grand, cathartic moment but as a series of everyday struggles, some trivial, others monumental. Agnes navigates a job promotion, jury duty, awkward sex with a new suitor (Lucas Hedges as Gavin, her adorably smitten neighbor), and frustrating encounters with bureaucratic systems that fail victims of assault.

Victor skewers these institutions with biting humor, particularly in scenes where male doctors are dismissive, and female university administrators feign concern while absolving themselves of responsibility. While some of these moments feel a touch exaggerated, Victor’s impeccable comedic timing prevents them from becoming preachy.

Agnes, like so many women in contemporary dark comedies (think Frances Ha or Girls), uses humor as both armor and avoidance. Her quirks—whether stuffing a cat inside her coat at a grocery store or delivering deadpan one-liners in uncomfortable situations—are endearing without veering into cloying territory.

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What sets Sorry, Baby apart from other trauma narratives is its emphasis on friendship as a source of resilience. The relationship between Agnes and Lydie is the film’s emotional core, depicted with rare authenticity. While Lydie is unwaveringly supportive, she is also her own person, with needs and frustrations that are subtly conveyed rather than spelled out.

The final act finds Agnes stepping into the role Lydie once played for her, providing comfort during a vulnerable moment. This reciprocal dynamic—where friendship is not just about being saved, but about lifting each other up—is what makes Sorry, Baby linger long after its final frame.

While Victor’s writing and performance are standouts, Sorry, Baby does have some rookie missteps. John Carroll Lynch’s sandwich shop owner, complete with an exaggerated Massachusetts accent, feels like an unnecessary detour. A scene involving a battered mouse as a clumsy metaphor also falls flat.

Visually, the film is competent but conventional. DP Mia Cioffi Henry captures the wintry stillness of the New England setting, but much of the film adheres to standard shot-reverse-shot dialogue sequences. A more visually daring approach might have elevated the film further.

Despite these minor shortcomings, Sorry, Baby remains a strikingly confident debut. Victor’s ability to weave humor, melancholy, and warmth into a deeply personal story signals the arrival of a major new talent in independent cinema.

Sorry, Baby is a rare gem: a trauma narrative that is neither exploitative nor overly sentimental. Instead, it is witty, deeply felt, and refreshingly honest about the messy, nonlinear nature of healing. With a stellar ensemble cast and a breakout lead performance, it cements Eva Victor as a writer-director to watch.

Rating: ★★★★½

Title: Sorry, Baby

Festival: Sundance (U.S. Dramatic Competition)

Director-Screenwriter: Eva Victor

Cast: Eva Victor, Naomi Ackie, Louis Cancelmi, Kelly McCormack, Lucas Hedges, John Carroll Lynch, ER Fightmaster

Running Time: 1 hr 43 mins