Hot Milk: The Myth of Liberation
Ana McGrath
“I’d rather be dead than shackled, wouldn’t you?”
Hot Milk (2025) offers more questions than answers. Set against the relentless sun of the Spanish coast, this film adaptation of Deborah Levy’s 2016 novel encapsulates the guilt, fear and isolation that often accompanies generational trauma. Both characters and audience are suspended in a liminal space within this film; the sun-bleached atmosphere of repression is fueled by suffocating heat and ambiguity. The film centres on the uneasy bond between Sofia (Emma Mackey) and her domineering mother, Rose (Fiona Shaw) as they navigate their intertwined paths to uncertain freedom. This relationship is, at its core, defined by love, resentment and a history of unspoken hurt.
Sofia puts her studies of anthropology on pause in order to care for Rose, who is wheelchair- bound due to an unknown illness. As they travel to Spain to meet an expert in search of a cure, Sofia’s frustration comes to a boiling point. She starts to drift away from her mother, grappling with strange encounters and sexual awakenings. The tense battle between freedom and fear runs deep within our protagonist. Rebecca Lenkiewicz, making her directorial debut after co-writing the scripts for critically acclaimed films such as Ida (2013) and Disobedience (2017), brings a quiet confidence to the material. Expectations were high, and while the film occasionally slips into abstraction, it delivers a haunting portrait of emotional entrapment. This film is beautifully shot, with dreamlike landscapes and searing colours that mirror Sofia’s shifting inner world. These stylistic choices prepare the audience for a film more concerned with introspection and emotional inheritance than narrative resolution.
The measured pace and eerie soundscape allow for an exploration of quiet strain rather than an explosive trauma. While the fragmented, metaphorically rich nature of Levy’s novel is difficult to fully capture on screen, the film retains much of its introspective and disorientating tone. The film visualises internal struggle through recurring motifs, most notably the medusa jellyfish and the chained dog. The lingering scar on Sofia’s arm from her jellyfish sting becomes a visual trace of her pain – a symbol of her mother’s sharp grip. The dog, restrained and restless, draws commentary from several characters regarding its entrapment and incessant barking. It’s only when Ingrid (Vicky Krieps) urges Sofia to release the dog that she finally begins to test the limits of her own agency. These motifs subtly expose the tensions between control and independence that define Sofia’s life.
A quietly devastating queer relationship punctuates the film’s story of familial strain. As Sofia seeks liberation in a poignant relationship with the emotionally unavailable Ingrid, she begins to realise that there is more to life than being a carer for her mother. That said, the relationship also invites us to consider if Sofia’s actions represent real empowerment or simply a cycle that she can’t break. Rather than offering a clear narrative of liberation or self-discovery, their relationship unfolds as a continuation of Sofia’s search for meaning through others – a pattern that echoes her complex relationship with her mother. Lenkiewicz avoids romantic cliché, instead allowing the affair to drift within the film’s larger meditation on longing and the elusiveness of escape.
Mackey’s performance stands out even in moments of silence. This becomes especially clear as Sofia watches flamenco dancers in a sunlit courtyard. Her stillness and focused gaze capture a complex mix of awe and alienation. The dancers’ synchronised footsteps create a striking, almost hypnotic soundscape that drives the intensity of the scene. Sofia’s quiet presence contrasts sharply with the dancers as they move with raw confidence and passion, embodying the emotional distance she feels from that kind of freedom. Without dialogue, Mackey conveys a profound longing and internal conflict, making the scene one of the film’s most evocative moments. Perhaps the most powerful scene is also the most divisive: the film’s abrupt ending offers no clear resolution, with the audience left uncertain regarding Lenkiewicz’s presentation of liberation. This ambiguity feels purposeful, reinforcing the film’s refusal to provide easy answers.
The performances and cinematography are the true highlights of the film. While the story can feel slow-moving and lacks some of the novel’s emotional complexity, it powerfully captures the toxic bind of codependency and presents a nuanced queer relationship. Fiona Shaw beautifully conveys Rose’s charming yet volatile presence, while Emma Mackey evokes deep empathy for Sofia, a daughter caught in a cycle of control. While the film can feel slightly lifeless at times, Hot Milk’s strength lies in its refusal to offer easy resolutions, portraying the messy, unfinished journey of a young woman trying to claim her own space in a world shaped by inherited burdens.
