Sentimental Value

Every year, there’s always a film that moves me so deeply that I feel the urge to, immediately after watching it for the first time, watch it again; to delve deeper into its mystery and understand more. This year, it’s Sentimental Value. First, the narrator illustrates the life of the house itself and the lives of those who lived there before our main characters. Then Trier lays out the cards. He gives us a set of characters and, inevitably, through our own experiences, we decide which character to focus on. That isn’t to say we can’t learn something from each character in one sitting, but this is a film that necessitates returning and placing yourself in the perspective of each character separately. Trier provides enough substance through the subtlety of his direction, and each actor remains dedicated to the authenticity of presenting this family dynamic. There is no grand catharsis; no moment (as in August: Osage County, for example) where the family sits together and a giant row releases every ounce of emotion. There are spats and moments of clear tension, but like most families, this one maintains the unsustainable status quo of avoidance, misunderstanding, resentment, betrayal, nostalgia, and a subdued yet profound sadness. The relationship between Gustav, Nora, and Agnes is hinged on the throughline of filmmaking and artistic expression. It is through this shared language that we see Nora’s inability to be creatively free, as the very endeavour of creation becomes a reminder of unresolved trauma and repressed emotions; those tied both to her father and to the married man she commits herself to. Nora and Gustav are able to understand one another through this language, but it is also how they hurt each other most. Agnes remains on the outskirts of this relationship. She attempts to understand her own pain and that of her family, and it is she who tries to better the situation; to mend old wounds, and heal old habits. Trier places the most emphasis on Stellan Skarsgård as an aged director. He is brutish, stoic, regretful, and absent. There is an ambiguity to his face; we don’t always know how he feels or what he thinks. We wait to hear what he has to say as he balances the patriarchal shadow of fatherhood with the reality that his absence may have disqualified him from ever truly claiming it. The final ten minutes are perhaps my favourite of 2025. The depression threaded throughout the film comes to a stillness as we see Nora seemingly enact a fatal narrative. Though we understand this moment as fictional — the house appearing as it once was, the blue curtains outside — we cannot help but experience it as a melancholic catharsis. It is the release of accumulated anger and sadness in a moment that could have ended in tragedy but instead arrives at something quieter: a renewed sense of connection. It is not perfect, but it is enough; a simple glance between a father and daughter, and the unbridled hug of a child.