‘His Three Daughers:’ The Best Film No One is Talking About

It happens every year. There’s that great film that gets exceptional reviews, and everyone who sees it loves it, but not enough people see it, and it gets lost in the Oscar shuffle. Ang Lee’s The Ice Storm from way back in 1997 comes to mind. Critics were bowled over, and the few that saw it fell for it too. Sadly, the lack of promotion, buzz, and box office ended with Lee’s masterpiece finding no purchase with the Academy. I hope I’m wrong, but I think this year’s version of The Ice Storm is His Three Daughters.

Ostensibly a three-person chamber piece taking place in the apartment of a dying man and his three very different daughters struggling with end-of-life concerns and long-held sibling issues that come to a head, His Three Daughters is one of the best films of the year. I’m left to wonder why no one is talking about this film as a serious Oscar contender. 

From the fundamental description I gave above, His Three Daughters may sound like a heavy emotional lift. While that is true to a degree, writer/director Azazel Jacobs informs the film with humor and a deft touch that allows the burden of the terminal to be carried evenly across the film. While calling His Three Daughters a comedy would be a stretch, it is often very funny. Carrie Coon, as the domineering Kate, gives a performance that would easily fit into one of Woody Allen’s best movies. Her tongue is sharp, and her words often end with a snap, but that angry defense she puts up is meant to conceal a high level of worry, frustration, and fear over her father’s fate and her wayward sister’s (Natasha Lyonne) deceptively laissez-faire behavior. 

There is a sequence where their father’s unusually blunt hospice worker (a terrific Rudy Galvin) shares that his name is “Angel,” and Kate responds, “Angel? That’s quite a name for what you do.” When Angel implies ways that they could let their dad go without a signed DNR, she tells her sisters, “I told you he was the angel of death.” As Rachel, the foul-mouthed, chain pot-smoking sister who has been living with her dad in a state of perpetual limbo, Lyonne is the type of pain-in-the-ass relative that you love and worry about despite their behavior. When Rachel and Kate try to work together on their father’s obituary ahead of his death, she offers up, “Married a couple crazy bitches, raised a few crazy bitches.” 

That third sister is Christina (Elizabeth Olsen), who may be the youngest member of the trio, functions like a middle sister, constantly playing referee when Rachel and Kate spar off, which is frequent. At one point, that “middle sister” job goes into full effect when Christina has to block a doorway so her two siblings can’t get to one another. Of the three actresses, Olsen has the most challenging role. She’s the good girl, the one trying to make everything okay. Reliably excellent as ever, Olsen handles the part with aplomb. When she finally snaps at Rachel and Kate, you can feel a lifetime of buried fury finally rising to the top and spilling over the brim. Rachel and Kate don’t have much in common other than the fact that they essentially think that everyone else is the asshole. The thing is if everyone else is the “asshole,” then the asshole is probably you. The point could not be made more apparent than when Christina finally loses her cool. 

To return to my Woody Allen reference, I think Jacobs has studied Allen’s films closely as a writer/director. That being said, he’s no thief. There’s a beautiful moment when Rachel stands outside in the chill of New York City as a train goes by, and all of the sound in the film drops out, leaving you with nothing to do but wonder what Rachel is thinking. There’s no obvious answer to what is going on in Rachel’s mind. Still, Lyonne’s stillness and expressive face speak volumes about the pensive and impossible nature of her and her two sisters’ situation. Jacobs has Allen’s sense of comedic beats against a tragic landscape but substitutes Allen’s very particular neuroses with something more plainly affecting. 

His Three Daughters is about three very different women dealing with the process of death—the mundane paper shuffling, the taking turns as being the person “on shift” in their father’s room, the memories that bring laughter and heartache even before their father has passed. For all but one scene, their father is never on screen. But then he has a moment of clarity and is a recognizable version of himself. One could see his “coming to” as a convenient dramatic device, but I know better. I’ve seen it. It happened with my grandmother. Last year, it happened with my dad. My father had been going in and out of coherence as his heart was failing him. Then, just like that, he was very present. He was able to decide to go to hospice. He asked to have his defibrillator and his pacemaker removed, and he told me he loved me. Not everyone gets that opportunity when the end comes. It is a gift beyond words. My dad chose to let go, and he got to say “I love you” to me once more, and I got to say it back. A day and a half later, my dad slipped away in his sleep. I wish everyone could take that same exit.

That’s not precisely how His Three Daughters closes, but the parallels in the film were close enough to my life that I could not help but be deeply moved by the film’s honesty, frankness, and humanity. I’ve been there, and if you’re reading this, I suspect many of you have been there too. 

I don’t know why more people aren’t talking about His Three Daughters. I do know I’ll never forget it. If you see it, I’m betting you won’t be able to shake it either. And that’s a good thing. Grief hurts, but it’s also a form of tribute. It means that those we’ve lost mattered. 

His Three Daughters matters. 

His Three Daughters is streaming now on Netflix