Death stops for Julia Louis-Dreyfus in smart, introspective picture
Croatian filmmaker Daina Oniunas-Pusic has earned multiple awards for her short films, and now parlays that talent on to the big screen with Tuesday, her terrific feature film debut. A contemplative and serious meditation on life, death, grief, and letting go, Oniunas-Pusic’s film never feels heavy-handed, even as it grapples with some of life’s most weighty philosophical questions.
That Oniunas-Pusic was able to cast Julia Louis-Dreyfus in the lead role is a major coup, and it’s Louis-Dreyfus’s portrayal of a mother facing her teenage daughter’s impending death that helps keep the movie grounded and sad, yes, but never treacly or maudlin. We think of Louis-Dreyfus as a comedic actor, with good reason (see: Seinfeld; Veep). Her wry comedic training, though, translates well to dramedies like You Hurt My Feelings and Enough Said that deal with the existential absurdities of life, whether coping with honesty in relationships or the vagaries of middle-aged dating.
That’s why Louis-Dreyfus is a good fit for Tuesday, a film that takes an unflinching look at the pain of both those facing death and those left behind after losing loved ones. Louis-Dreyfus plays Zora, a single mother to 15-year-old Tuesday (Lola Petticrew), who’s suffering from an unnamed terminal illness. Unable to bear Tuesday’s imminent death, Zora hires a caretaker for Tuesday while she spends afternoons idling in the park. Zora is forced to confront her denial, though, when she meets Death itself, in the form of a giant talking macaw (stirringly voiced by Arinzé Kene).
Don’t be scared off by the magic realism of this film. The metaphor of Death as a talking bird having a panic attack because of all the constant cacophony of voices crying out to him works surprisingly well. Our compassion and empathy are immediately elicited, both for Death and for his “victims”, many of whom call out to him to end their suffering, in a barrage of haunting, overlapping voices that make Death, and us, wince.
Zora must learn to accept the inevitably of Tuesday’s death, as we all must do at some point with our own loved ones, and with ourselves. Watching Oniunas-Pusic’s heady yet clear-eyed picture, I was reminded of Emily Dickinson’s poem “Because I Could Not Stop for Death”:
Because I could not stop for Death– He kindly stopped for me– The Carriage held but just Ourselves– And Immortality. We slowly drove–He knew no haste And I had put away My labor and my leisure too, For His Civility–
Indeed, in Oniunas-Pusic’s rendering, similarly, Death is not to be feared, pushed away, or literally stopped, as Zora tries vainly to do in various ways by harming the macaw. Instead, Death should be welcomed, for its calmness and for the relief it can bring to those enduring pain, whether physical, mental, or spiritual. Zora doesn’t know how she’ll go on after Tuesday passes, but Death reminds her, in one of the film’s most profound exchanges, that the way to keep Tuesday present is by remembering her fondly. We must not give into darkness and depression, but instead move toward lightness, happiness. Tuesday wants to know her mother will be okay after Tuesday is gone, and once Zora can reassure both herself and Tuesday of that, they both can be at peace.
Oniunas-Pusic’s script doesn’t shy away from the overarching metaphysical questions that plague us all. Zora muses on the nature of God, an afterlife, and why so many die young, yet others live into old age. “Why am I here?” Zora desperately asks Death. “I’m nothing.”
“How you live is how she lives,” Death replies, telling Zora that her memories of Tuesday will be what keep Tuesday’s spirit alive. “Your memory is how she lives. This is Tuesday’s after life.”
If you’re dry-eyed after this particular exchange, you’re a stronger soul than I. But this affecting, meditative, and provocative picture is bound to make you rethink everything you thought you understood about grief and death. It’s one of the most thoughtful, most original, and best pictures of the year.
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Tuesday is in theaters now.
