I didn't think I was going to like Echo Valley. Early on, it felt like yet another somber character study about a sad, emotionally walled-off woman trudging through grief. I found myself getting impatient with Julianne Moore's character-too quiet, too clenched, too stuck. My gut reaction was, "Okay, we get it. You're broken. Move on already."
But by the time the credits rolled, I realized: that was the point.
What starts as a slow-burn drama about loss and trauma quietly transforms into a nuanced meditation on the seductive comfort of victimhood-and what it costs to escape it. Julianne Moore gives a tightly coiled performance, full of quiet anguish and understated strength. She doesn't play a victim so much as a woman who's learned to survive by keeping her pain close, and her joy at arm's length.
Domhnall Gleeson is chilling in his restraint, embodying what happens when you let victimhood rot into violence and detachment. And Kyle MacLachlan-who I assumed would be a major player when he appeared-gets barely two minutes of screen time. But those two minutes are pivotal. His character, with quiet stoicism and no shortage of reluctance, models what it looks like to move on. He becomes the counterpoint to Moore's emotional limbo-a living example of what it means to leave the valley, metaphorically and literally.
Sydney Sweeney, on the other hand, feels a bit too familiar in her role. While she hits the marks emotionally, the character felt too close to her performances in The White Lotus and other recent roles: another whiny, self-absorbed, emotionally combustible young woman who seems to confuse chaos with depth. At this point, it's less a character than a brand. She's talented, no question, but here, she's recycling.
Then there's Fiona Shaw-maybe the film's secret weapon. As the loyal friend and emotional ballast, she plays the role that holds everything together. She's not a moral compass in the preachy sense-she's just present, constant, human. The final montage (which oddly echoes the vibe of a heist movie epilogue) showcases Shaw's quiet complicity and grace. She doesn't need big speeches-she shows up. Always. And that's what makes her character land so well.
By the end, I didn't just feel satisfied-I felt subtly re-educated. Echo Valley asks its audience to do something rare these days: sit with discomfort, and reconsider their snap judgments. It's not flashy, it's not loud, but it lingers. It's a film about people trapped in their own narratives, and what it takes to quietly write a new one.
I came in annoyed. I left impressed.
