For many reasons, including, but not limited to, the COVID-19 pandemic showering existentialism upon people’s minds, the increased demand for content within the Hollywood system, and the need for projects to have a starry name in each facet of the production, the 2020s have been marked by a wave of high-profile actors making their directorial debuts. Some of the names that have placed themselves at the front of the credits have been Scarlett Johansson (Eleanor the Great), Chris Pine (Poolman), Kate Winslet (Goodbye June), Jerry Seinfeld (Unfrosted), Maggie Gyllenhaal (The Lost Daughter), Rebecca Hall (Passing), Michael B. Jordan (Creed III), Kristin Scott Thomas (My Mother’s Wedding), Anna Kendrick (Woman of the Hour), Patricia Arquette (Gonzo Girl), and Aziz Ansari (Good Fortune). The results have been varied, with most playing it safe now that the brunt of the praise or ridicule is aimed directly towards them. It’s hard to win when you’re playing not to lose.

Kristen Stewart’s The Chronology of Water is anything but those other titles, seemingly bursting out of the actor’s frustration over the age-old quote that “if you want something done right, do it yourself.” Similar to the directorial debuts I mentioned above, the biopic genre is going through a fallow period of sameness, with each film seemingly containing puzzle pieces of the same shape and size. The only difference is the color, which is usually not that different. When everyone’s life stories are the same, why are they special?

Granted, on paper, The Chronology of Water contains many of the tried and true biopic tropes. It is based on the memoir by Lidia Yuknavitch, who grew up in a household commandeered by an abusive father and an emotionally catatonic alcoholic mother. Lidia’s only escape is through swimming, which she excels at. Her father forbade her from going to colleges that didn’t offer her a full scholarship, as they would have done that if they really wanted her. Once she does go to college, her newfound freedom is laced with drugs and alcohol. Within her fleeting lucid moments, she discovers her uncanny ability to write from the heart, distilling her darkness within the bright white space on the page.

Sandwiched between her years being caught in a love triangle with a shiny vampire and a perpetually shirtless werewolf in the Twilight franchise, Stewart had a bevy of collaborations with some of the world’s top auteurs: David Fincher (Panic Room), Olivier Assayas (Clouds of Sils Maria, Personal Shopper), Ang Lee (Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk), Kelly Reichardt (Certain Women), Pablo Larraín (Spencer), and David Cronenberg (Crimes of the Future). A student cannot graduate simply by emulating the master; they must understand what it means to be a master.

This is a film that smells of bloody iron, jaggedly cutting between the past, present, and future. The scratchiness of the 16mm photography is matched by the sound editing, with a multitude of cuts marked by an aggressive slap to your ears. The music is loud enough to mask much of Imogen Poots’ narration, although the feeling in her words tells as much of the story as the words themselves. The 128-minute runtime could be labeled as one big montage, with very few scenes lasting more than a minute. It’s exhaustingly claustrophobic, with no pretty pictures to assuage our eyes.  

Lidia might find a lot in common with a soldier returning home from PTSD. Her memories turn on her in an instant, with younger suppressions becoming older realizations. Why did her older sister come out of a locked room crying, followed by her dad? Why did her hopelessly devoted boyfriend stick around through years of her abuse? The waves of pain are just as real now as they were then. I may have already known some of the markings and ultimate destination of this story, but the path always eluded me. It zigs where others zag, led by Poots’ unflinchingly magnetic performance.