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Renate Reinsve is the new face of Scandinavia: depression with a smile. Standing 5 feet 10 with open, friendly features, the Norwegian talent has a grin that makes her appear at once like an endearing everywoman and a large, unpredictable child. Reinsve zoomed to international acclaim with her Cannes-winning performance in Joachim Trier’s 2021 “The Worst Person in the World,” a dramedy tailor-made to her lanky, likable style of self-loathing. Now, Trier has written his muse another showcase, “Sentimental Value,” where Reinsve plays an emotionally avoidant theater actor who bounces along in pretty much the same bittersweet key.

“Sentimental Value” gets misty about a few things — families, filmmaking, real estate — all while circling a handsome Oslo house where the Borg clan has lived for four generations. It’s a dream home with red trim on the window frames and pink roses in the yard. Yet, sisters Nora (Reinsve) and Agnes (Inga Ibsdotter Lilleaas) aren’t fighting to keep it, perhaps due to memories of their parents’ hostile divorce or maybe because they don’t want to deal with their estranged father, Gustav (Stellan Skarsgård, wonderful), who grew up there himself and still owns the place, even though he’s moved to Sweden.

Trier opens the film with a symbolically laden camera pan across Oslo that ends on a cemetery. He wants to make sure we understand that while Norway looks idyllic to outsiders jealous that all four Scandinavian countries rank among the globe’s happiest, it can still be as gloomy as during the era of Henrik Ibsen.

More impressively, Trier shifts to a fabulous, time-bending historical montage of the house itself over the century-plus it’s belonged to the Borgs. There’s a crack in it that seems to represent the fissures in the family, the flaws in their facade. Over these images, Reinsve’s Nora recites a 6th-grade school essay she wrote about her deep identification with her childhood home. Having grown up to become terrified of intimacy, today she’s more like a detached garage.

Nora and Agnes were young when their father, a modestly well-regarded art-house filmmaker, decamped to a different country. At a retrospective of his work, Gustav refers to his crew as his “family,” which would irritate his kids if they’d bothered to attend. Agnes, a former child actor, might note that she, too, deserves some credit. Played in her youth by the compelling Ida Atlanta Kyllingmark Giertsen, Agnes was fantastic in the final shot of Gustav’s masterpiece and Trier takes a teasingly long time to suggest why she retired from the business decades ago, while her older sister keeps hammering at it.

Gustav hasn’t made a picture in 15 years. He’s in that liminal state of renown that I’m guessing Trier has encountered many times: a faded director who’s burned through his money and clout, but still keeps a tuxedo just in case he makes it back to Cannes. Like Reinsve’s Nora, Gustav acts younger than his age and is at his most charming in small doses, particularly with strangers. Trier and his longtime co-writer Eskil Vogt have made him a tad delusional, someone who wouldn’t instantly recognize his graying reflection in a mirror. Sitting down at a cafe with Nora, Gustav jokes that the waitress thinks that they’re a couple on a date. (She almost certainly doesn’t.)

But the tension between Gustav and Nora is real, if blurry. He’s invited her to coffee not as father and daughter, but as a has-been angling to cast Nora as the lead of his next film, which he claims he’s written for her. His script climaxes with a nod to the day his own mother, Karin (Vilde Søyland), died by suicide in their house back when he was just a towheaded boy of 7. Furthering the sickly mojo, Gustav wants to stage his version of the hanging in the very room where it happened.

His awkward pitch is a terrific scene. Gustav and Nora are stiff with each other, both anxious to prove they don’t need the other’s help. But Trier suggests, somewhat mystically, that Gustav has an insight into his daughter’s gloom that making the movie will help them understand. Both would rather express themselves through art than confess how they feel.

When Gustav offers his daughter career advice, it comes off like an insult. She’s miffed when her dad claims his small indie would be her big break. Doesn’t he know she’d be doing him the favor? She’s the lead of Oslo’s National Theatre with enough of a social media following to get the film financed. (With 10 production companies listed in the credits of this very film, Trier himself could probably calculate Nora’s worth to the krone.)

But Gustav also has a lucky encounter with a dewy Hollywood starlet named Rachel (Elle Fanning) who sees him as an old-world bulldog who can give her resume some class. Frustrated by her coterie of assistants glued to their cellphones, Rachel gazes at him with the glowy admiration he can’t get from his own girls. Their dynamic proves to be just as complex as if they were blood-related. If Rachel makes his film, she’ll become a combo platter of his mother, his daughter, his protégée and his cash cow. Nora merely merits the financing for a low-budget Euro drama; Rachel can make it a major Netflix production (something “Sentimental Value” most adamantly is not).

It takes money to make a movie. Trier’s itchiness to get into that unsentimental fact isn’t fully scratched. He seems very aware that the audience for his kind of niche hit wants to sniffle at delicate emotions. When Gustav’s longtime producer Michael (Jesper Christensen) advises him to keep making films “his way” — as in antiquated — or when Gustav takes a swipe at Nora’s career as “old plays for old people,” the frustration in those lines, those doubts whether to stay the course or chase modernity, makes you curious if Trier himself is feeling a bit hemmed in.

There’s a crack running through “Sentimental Value” too. A third of it wants to be a feisty industry satire, but the rest believes there’s prestige value in tugging on the heartstrings. The title seems to be as much about that as anything.

I’ve got no evidence for Trier’s restlessness other than an observation that “Sentimental Value” is most vibrant when the dialogue is snide and the visuals are snappy. There’s a stunning image of Gustav, Nora and Agnes’ faces melting together that doesn’t match a single other frame of the movie, but I’m awful glad cinematographer Kasper Tuxen Andersen got it in there.

The film never quite settles on a theme, shifting from the relationship between Nora and Agnes, Nora and Gustav, and Gustav and Rachel like a gambler spreading their bets, hoping one of those moments will earn a tear. Nora herself gets lost in the shuffle. Is she jealous of her father’s attention to Rachel? Does she care about her married lover who pops up to expose her issues? Does she even like acting?

Reinsve’s skyrocketing career is Trier’s most successful wager and he gives her enough crying scenes to earn an Oscar nomination. Skarsgård is certainly getting one too. But Fanning delivers the best performance in the film. She’s not only hiding depression under a smile, she’s layering Rachel’s megawatt charisma under her eagerness to please, allowing her insecurity at being Gustav’s second pick to poke through in rehearsals where she’s almost — but not quite — up to the task.

Rachel could have been some Hollywood cliché, but Fanning keeps us rooting for this golden girl who hopes she’ll be taken seriously by playing a Nordic depressive. Eventually, she slaps on a silly Norwegian accent in desperation and wills herself to cry in character. And when she does, Fanning has calibrated her sobs to have a hint of hamminess. It’s a marvelous detail that makes this whole type of movie look a little forced.

Jesse Plemons in the movie “Bugonia.”

(Atsushi Nishijima / Focus Features)

Jesse Plemons is never one to chew scenery. Even when handed a role that edges on madness, he doesn’t go big. Instead, he goes deep, building tension quietly from the inside out. And in Yorgos Lanthimos’ uncategorizable, darkly comic sci-fi thriller, Plemons — reuniting with the director after playing three characters in last year’s “Kinds of Kindness” — delivers one of his most riveting performances yet. As Teddy, a rumpled, reclusive beekeeper convinced that a pharma CEO (Emma Stone) is an alien from the planet Andromeda, Plemons channels paranoia, grief and righteousness into something both absurd and unnervingly sincere. The “I do my own research” archetype could easily veer into “SNL” sketch territory but he plays it heartbreakingly straight, creating a chillingly familiar portrait of a man lost in an algorithmic maze of internet rabbit holes and desperate for clarity in a world that no longer makes sense. Teddy enlists his younger cousin Don (Aidan Delbis, an autistic first-time actor in a mesmerizing turn) to help him abduct Stone’s steely executive, drawing him into the mission in a misguided effort to protect him. Even as things spiral into chaos, Plemons (a 2022 supporting actor Oscar nominee for Jane Campion’s “The Power of the Dog”) roots the performance in a warped but recognizably human emotional logic. The result captures the anxious, conspiratorial spirit of 2025 with eerie precision, proving once again that Plemons doesn’t need to raise his voice to deliver a performance that speaks volumes. — Josh Rottenberg

Agnes (Eva Victor) has the face of a classical Hollywood movie star but she dresses like an old fisherman. Her expressions are inscrutable; you never know what’s going to come out of her mouth or how. When asked on a written questionnaire how her friends would describe her, she puts down “smart,” crosses it out, then replaces it with “tall.” She is all of those things: tall, smart, striking, endearingly awkward, hard to read. And she is an utterly captivating, entirely unique cinematic presence, the planet around which orbits “Sorry, Baby,” the debut feature of Victor, who not only stars but writes and directs.

Agnes’ backstory, revealed in time, is a distressingly common one of sexual assault, recounted with bursts of wild honesty, searing insight and unexpected humor. Victor’s screenplay earned her the Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award at the Sundance Film Festival this year, where the film had its premiere. As a writer and performer, Victor allows Agnes to relay what happened in her own way while keeping the most intimate horrors protected.

Set in the frigid environs of the English department at a rural Massachusetts university, “Sorry, Baby” carries a literary quality, emphasized by nonchronological titled chapters (e.g., “The Year With the Baby,” “The Year With the Bad Thing,”) carefully establishing our protagonist, the world she inhabits and a few nagging questions.

Agnes is a professor of English at the university where she completed her graduate studies, but we first meet her as the best friend of Lydie (Naomi Ackie), who arrives for a winter weekend visit. Two codependent besties reunited, they snuggle on the couch and laugh about sex. Lydie delights at the mystery man who turns up on her friend’s doorstep — a friendly, familiar neighbor named Gavin (Lucas Hedges).

But Lydie’s quiet concern for her friend is also palpable. When she reveals her pregnancy to Agnes, she says, “There’s something I need to tell you about my body,” as if Agnes is a child who needs gentle explanation. And in a strange way, Agnes seems to take to this childlike role with her friend. Lydie carefully probes her about her office and its previous occupant. She presses her about remaining in this town. Isn’t it “a lot”? “It’s a lot to be wherever,” Agnes replies. Lydie requests of her, “Don’t die” and Agnes reassures her she would have already killed herself if she was going to. It’s cold comfort, a phrase that could capably describe the entire vibe of “Sorry, Baby.”

Victor then flips back to an earlier chapter, before their graduation, to a time when Agnes seems less calcified in her idiosyncrasies. Their thesis advisor, Preston Decker (Louis Cancelmi), handsome and harried, tells Agnes her work is “extraordinary” and reschedules a meeting due to a child-care emergency. They both end up at his home, where dusk turns to night.

What ensues is what you expect and dread, though we only hear about it when Agnes recounts the excruciating details of the incident to Lydie later that night. The fallout renders Agnes emotionally stunted, running alternately on autopilot and impulse. Lydie fiercely protects (and enables) her friend until she has to move on with her life, leaving Agnes frozen in amber in that house, that office, that town, that night.

There’s an architectural quality to Victor’s style in the film’s structure and thoughtful editing, and in the lingering shots of buildings standing starkly against an icy sky, glowing windows beckoning or concealing from within: a representation of a singular kind of brittle, poignant New England stoicism. Victor captures Agnes the same way.

Thanks to the profound and nuanced honesty Victor extracts from each moment, “Sorry, Baby” is a movie that lingers. Even when Agnes does something outlandish or implausible — turning up on foot at Gavin’s door in a tizzy is one of her curious quirks — it feels true to the character.

But Agnes is a mystery even to herself, it seems, tamping down her feelings until they come tumbling out in strange ways. She goes about her daily life in a never-ending cycle of repression and explosion, cracking until she shatters completely. Her most important journey is to find a place to be soft again.

The only catharsis or healing to be found in the film comes from the titular apology, more a rueful word of caution than anything else. We can never be fully protected from what life has in store for us, nor from the acts of selfishness or cruelty that cause us to harden and retreat into the protective cocoon of a huge jacket, a small town, an empty house.

Life — and the people in it — will break us sometimes. But there are still kittens and warm baths and best friends and really good sandwiches. There are still artists like Victor who share stories like this with such detailed emotion. Sometimes that’s enough to glue us back together, at least for a little while.

There is a simple tattoo of a windowpane on the middle finger of Eva Victor’s right hand. When I ask about it, the filmmaker launches into a story that involves miscommunication with an Italian tattoo artist while on a trip to Paris.

“I drew this really intricate fine-line tattoo of a window with all these curtains and little things in it,” explains Victor. “And I went to the woman and she was like, ‘I cannot do that.’ And I was like, ‘OK, what can you do?’ And she drew a box with lines in it and I was like, “OK, let’s do that.’ And she did it.”

With a little distance and perspective, what could have been a permanent disaster now means something else.

“It seriously is a really rough tattoo,” Victor adds with a lighthearted laugh. “But, you know, life is life. And that’s my tattoo and I have it on my hand every day of my life.”

Much like “Sorry, Baby,” the debut feature that Victor wrote, directed and starred in, the tattoo story is one that begins in odd whimsy but takes an unexpected turn toward something deeper, a personal journey.

“I have a lot of tattoos that are day-of tattoos,” Victor, 31, says. “Sometimes with big decisions I find it’s easier to just do it. It matters more to me that I’m doing this than what it is.

Seeing it every day, the little window is a reminder of another life. “It is definitely like a memory of a person I was who would do something like that,” she adds.

“Sorry, Baby” premiered earlier this year at the Sundance Film Festival, where it won the Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award and was picked up for distribution by indie powerhouse A24. The film more recently played at Cannes and opens in limited release this week.

Told via a literary-inspired chapter structure across five years, the story follows Agnes (Victor), a professor at the small East Coast liberal arts college where she was also a grad student, as she tenuously recovers from the free fall following a sexual assault by one of her instructors. Naomi Ackie (also recently seen in “Blink Twice” and “Mickey 17”) brings an openhearted allegiance to Agnes’ best friend Lydie, who, over the course of the film, comes out as gay, marries a woman and has a baby, while Lucas Hedges plays a sympathetic neighbor.

Eva Victor in the movie “Sorry, Baby.”

(A24)

It’s a recent quiet Monday morning at a West Hollywood vegetarian restaurant where we meet and Victor, who uses they/she pronouns and identifies as queer, peruses the menu with a mix of curiosity and enthusiasm.

Victor is a self-described pescatarian but will make the odd exception for a slider at a fancy party or a bite of the pork and green chile stew at Dunsmoor in Glassell Park, a favorite. Having moved to Los Angeles a little over a year ago to work on the editing of “Sorry, Baby,” Victor has settled into living in Silver Lake with their cat, Clyde.

“I love it — I do,” Victor says with quiet conviction. “It’s very comforting. I have all my little things I get when I’m home, but it’s been a while since I’ve been home for a bit. So I’m looking forward to being able to rest at home soon.”

After breakfast, Victor will head to the airport to go shoot a small acting part in an unnamed project and by the end of the week will make a talk show debut with an appearance on the “The Late Show With Stephen Colbert.”

“It’s been very intense for me,” Victor says of the period following Sundance. “I’m very interested in my privacy and also in routine of the day. I really like having things I do every day. It’s weird to go from making a movie for four years, basically, that nobody knows about. And then it premieres at Sundance and that’s how people find out about it and everyone finds out about it in the same night. That is a very bizarre experience for the body.”

Victor adds, “It does feel like there are a lot of layers between me and the film at this point.”

There’s an unusual, angular physicality to Victor’s performance in “Sorry, Baby,” as Agnes struggles to reengage with her own body following the assault, mostly referred to in the film as “the bad thing.”

“I keep hearing, ‘Oh, Agnes is so awkward.’ I’m like, ‘What the hell?’” says Victor, protectively. “I’m very humbled by people’s reactions to how bizarre they think that character is because I’m like: ‘Oh, I thought she was acting legitimately normal, but OK.’”

“It’s life-affirming for me to know that I wrote the film in a leap-of-faith way to be like: ‘Is anyone else feeling like this?’” says Victor. “And it’s nice to know that there are people who are understanding what that is.”

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Victor, grew up in San Francisco and studied playwriting and acting at Northwestern University, moving to New York City after graduation with ambitions to work as a staffer on a late-night talk show. She got a job writing for the satirical website Reductress and began making short online videos of herself, many of which became offbeat viral comedy hits for the way they jabbed at contemporary culture, including “me explaining to my boyfriend why we’re going to straight pride” and “me when I def did not murder my husband,” and “the girl from the movie who doesn’t believe in love.” She also appeared as a performer on the final three seasons of the series “Billions.”

The character sketches of those videos only hinted at the nuance and complexity of which Victor was capable. Throughout “Sorry, Baby” there is a care and delicacy to how the most sensitive and vulnerable moments are handled. In the film, the sexual assault itself occurs offscreen — we don’t see it or hear it — as a shot of the facade of the teacher’s house depicts the passage of time from day to night. Later, Agnes sits in the bath as she describes to Lydie what happened, a moment made all the more disarming for the tinges of humor that Victor still manages to bring.

“At the end of the day, I really wanted to make a film about trying to heal,” Victor says. “And about love getting you through really hard times. And so the violence is not depicted in the film and not structurally the big plot point of the film. The big plot point of the film in my opinion is Agnes telling Lydie what happened and her holding it very well. That to me is sort of what we’re building to in the film — these moments in friendship over time and the loneliness of a person in between those moments.”

The relationship between Agnes and Lydie forms much of the core of “Sorry, Baby,” with the chemistry between Victor and Ackie giving off a rare warmth and understanding. The connection between the two actors as performers happened straight away.

“The script was so incredible that, to be honest with you, I already felt like I knew them,” says Ackie on a Zoom call from New York City. “There was something about the rhythm of how the writing was that made me feel like we might have something in common. When I was reading it to myself, it felt so natural in my mouth. And then we finally met and it was like all of the humor and the heart and the tragedy of the script was suddenly in a person. There was a sense of ease in the way we were talking and openness and a joyfulness and an excitedness that was kind of instantaneous.”

Naomi Ackie, left, and Eva Victor in the movie “Sorry, Baby.”

(A24)

The film is the product of an unusual development process spurred by producers Barry Jenkins, Adele Romanski and Mark Ceryak. Based on their fandom of Victor’s online videos, Jenkins reached out through DMs and set up a meeting, setting in motion the process that would eventually lead to a screenplay for “Sorry, Baby.”

“When Ava sent the first draft of ‘Sorry, Baby,’ it arrived in the way that the most special things have for me, which is fully formed,” says Romanski. “Not to say that we didn’t then go back and continue to refine it, but it just arrived so clear and so emotional. It hit from the first draft. So it felt like it would be such a shame not to figure out how to put that into a visual form that other people could experience what we were able to experience just from reading it.”

From there, the team set about making Victor feel comfortable and confident as both a filmmaker and a performer. Having already had experience working with first-time feature directors such as Charlotte Wells on “Aftersun” and Raven Jackson on “All Dirt Roads Taste of Salt,” the producing trio knew the process would require extra care and attention.

“Part of the reason this challenge felt possible is how much work we’ve done in how best to support a director in that debut space,” says Romanski. “There was a lot of confidence and assuredness around how to be that producer for that first-time filmmaker.”

The team arranged something of an unofficial directing fellowship, allowing Victor to shoot a few scenes from the script and then sit down with an editor to discuss how to improve on the footage. Victor made shot lists after watching Jenkins’ “Moonlight” and Kelly Reichardt’s “Certain Women,” leaning further into the mechanics of how to visually construct scenes. Victor also shadowed filmmaker Jane Schoenbrun during production for last year’s acclaimed “I Saw the TV Glow.”

“There was no prescriptive timeline to the course that it took,” explains Romanski. “It was just kind of, we’ll keep finding things to help you fortify and put on directorial muscle mass until you tell us, ‘I’m ready.’ And then when you say, ‘I’m ready,’ we’ll pivot to putting the movie together. There’s no blueprint for this, at least not for us. We haven’t done it quite like this before, but that’s also what’s exciting about it.”

Without ever sharing specifics, the story is rooted in Victor’s personal experience. Going back to some of their earliest press around 2018, Victor would self-describe as a sexual assault survivor. There was material about it in a stand-up comedy routine. (“It didn’t work,” Victor notes, dryly, adding that they longer do stand-up.)

The experience of making the movie and putting it out into the world has been one of potentially being continually retriggered, sent back to emotions and feelings Victor has worked hard to move forward from. Yet the process of making the film began to provide its own rewards.

“The thing about this kind of trauma is it is someone deciding where your body goes without your permission,” Victor says. “And that is surreal and absurd and very difficult. It’s very difficult to make sense of the world after something like that happens.”

The “Sorry, Baby” shoot in Massachusetts last year was a turning point, says Victor, one of validation. “The experience of directing myself as an actor is an experience of saying: This is where my body’s going right now,” says Victor. “And a crew of 60 people being like, ‘Yes.’ It’s this really special experience of being like, ‘I am saying where my body goes’ and everyone agrees. In the making of the film, that was very powerful to me.”

Eva Victor and John Carroll Lynch in the movie “Sorry, Baby.”

(A24)

Even with the success of “Sorry, Baby” and the way it has launched Victor to a new level of attention and acclaim, there is a tinge of melancholy to discovering just how many people are connecting to the film because it speaks to their own experiences.

“It’s a very personal film for a lot of people and there’s a sadness to that because it’s a community of people who have experienced things that they shouldn’t have had to,” says Victor. “It’s life-affirming for me to know that I wrote the film in a leap-of-faith way to be like: ‘Is anyone else feeling like this?’ And it’s nice to know that there are people who are understanding what that is.”

While recently back in France, Victor got another tattoo, this time on her foot, where she doesn’t see it as often.

“Maybe there’s a dash of mental illness in it,” says Victor. “But I think with tattoos, it’s such a good one, because it’s not going to hurt you but it is intense and permanent. So it is risk-taking.”

That attention to a small shift in personal perspective, a change in action and how one approaches the world, is part of what makes “Sorry, Baby” such a powerful experience. And as it now continues to make its way out to more audiences, Victor’s experience with it continues to evolve as well.

“There is a process that’s happening right now where it’s like an exhale. I’m like, whatever will be will be,” Victor says. “Putting something out into the world is a process of letting go of it. And I had my time with it and I got to make it what I wanted it to be. And now it will over time not be mine.”

The experience of making “Sorry, Baby” has pushed Victor forward both professionally and personally, finding catharsis in creativity and community.

“I guess that is the deal,” Victor offers. “That is part of the journey of releasing something. I mean it’s legitimately called a release.”