SICK GIRL: A Sickly Depiction Of Deceit

It was strange the intrigue that surrounded Jennifer Cram‘s Sick Girl. A young woman’s small white lie turns into a cataclysmic effect of deceit, isolation, and loneliness. Promoted as a female-driven comedy, Sick Girl felt like a modern take on the fairy tale warnings of “be careful what you wish for”.

Yet, Sick Girl appeared anemic in its depiction, never truly ready to commit to the humor or drama aspects of its narrative. A menagerie of characters, there is a lot to encompass in its short runtime. And while it has it s moments of genuine emotional connection, the film feels sluggish in presentation.

Only the Truth Can Save You

Sick Girl opens ambiguously, four girls on an apparent road trip living their best lives. While there is little context given, their interactions are intimately effervescent. This is a tight knit group of women sharing mutual experiences and emotions. There is an even playing field felt as well, each equal to the next, each welcoming to one another. It is a warm and soft beginning, ending with a picture taken and hard drop into reality moments later.

As we move fifteen years ahead, Wren (Nina Dobrev) awakens on her friend Cece’s (Stephanie Koenig) couch, clearly worse for wear. After a night of drinking and partying, there is a contrasting reality between the party-aged behavior Wren has refused to move away from and the passing of time and responsibility Cece and friends Carol  (Wendi McClendon-Covey) and Laurel (Cherry Cola) have embraced. Between kids, marathons and high-power positions, Wren is presented as harshly stuck in the past with no intent or direction to move forward.

Faced with a devastating action and the loss of her friends, Wren in the moment tells a lie, one that will grow to become bigger than herself and those around her. As she navigates the aftermath of her lie, she faces the growing consequences of revealing the truth or the decision to maintain deceit until it has run its course.

Sick Girl is packed with deep emotional investment and the idea of true unity within a friendship, but it left me wanting more. Sadly, it left my emotional investment and catharsis feeling hollow. As it never feels as though it truly commits to either the humor it finds in the situation of Wren’s lie or the devastating dramatic actions in its aftermath. As it struggles with the commitment, it struggles to cohesively bring the two elements together. Too often, viewers will find they should be laughing more, while guilty for finding humor in the growing lie Wren has wielded as a means of control.

The film wants you to be disgusted with Wren, and in this venture, it succeeds. There is a feeling that goes beyond fremdschämen, your embarrassment of Wren’s actions souring any sense of her redemption the film may want to craft before the credits roll. And there lies the remaining intrigue of Sick Girl. By film’s end, there is no clean-cut resolution that leaves you cathartically satisfied because the film understands you truly can’t be. It is in this realization, in the film’s final moments that leave Sick Girl truly authentic and truly freeing.

Conclusion:

While Sick Girl encompasses a wide range of performances, it is the performance of Nina Dobrev that truly stands out. Dobrev allows her Wren to be broken from start to finish, always a bit more fractured, no matter the repair or the remorse. Yet, she leaves a fissure of goodness that each character responds to. Her performance feels the most personal in the film, translating to an audience that all too often can relate in the context of themselves or someone they have known. She is flanked by an amazing ensemble, especially in the performances of Wendi McClendon-Covey, Stephanie Koenig, Sherry Cola and Brandon Mychal Smith. Each brings a breadth of individuality that works to not only compliment Dobrev‘s Wren, but contrast her as well. They each hold her past and present, giving her the strength she needs to move into her future.

Sick Girl will be released in theaters and on-demand on October 20, 2023.