Murky

From the onset, we knew what we didn’t want this movie to be. We didn’t want a sappy, overly sentimental rendition of death. We didn’t want beautiful, tragic women who understood each other's sorrow innately.

We wanted to make a film about grief, not death. We wanted to dive into the strangeness of learning how to grieve, how imperfectly we support each other through the process, and how little we understand it.

While directing this film, I would often return to a memory of my grandmother’s funeral. We sat Shiva for her, and my father had to sit for days and be publicly consoled by every person he’d ever known. Your mother was an astounding woman. She’s in a better place. I’m so sorry for your loss. The line of mourners was endless.

Exhausted, my father stepped out of the room. He sat alone on a couch and as he looked out the window searching for some semblance of guidance, a man snuck up behind him. He said:

“Your mother was a good woman. Also, there’s a silver Prius parked in a tow zone out front. I think you should make an announcement.”

My dad looked at me with tears in his eyes. Then he burst into laughter. It was the first time I’d seen him smile since his mother died.

That same kind of absurd and beautiful emotional contradiction was in Eliza’s script from the very beginning. It’s what I set out to honor by making this movie alongside a team of deeply thoughtful and talented collaborators. We hope it resonates with you.