Fantasia Review: Julie Pacino’s I Live Here Now is a Psychodrama That Welcomes Disturbing Humor

      Rose (Lucy Fry) has always understood that she cannot bear children. This harsh reality stems from a traumatic childhood surgery that became embedded in her psyche as a nightmare, forming a significant aspect of her identity. It serves as a vital piece of her perceived brokenness. Therefore, she is unable to comprehend the shock of being told by her doctor that she is pregnant. The irony lies not only in the timing of this revelation, which comes after she was advised to lose three pounds for a potential acting opportunity, but also in the unfortunate coincidence of achieving a major career milestone just as the chance to start a family unexpectedly arises. Rose feels the need to escape the turmoil and discover what she truly wants, who she is, and who she might still become.

      The debut feature from Julie Pacino (yes, she is Al’s daughter), I Live Here Now introduces a disquieting humor from the outset. There are notable, fateful events, such as talent agent Cindy Abrams (Cara Seymour) insisting on weight loss despite knowing Rose has no extra weight to shed (“maybe the character is starving”). A darkly absurd encounter with Travis’s mother, Martha (Sheryl Lee), reveals a controlling nature that essentially reduces her son’s semen to a family asset. The surreal, otherworldly ambiance of The Crown Inn, where Rose goes to ponder an abortion, is populated by the martini-holding manager (Lara Clear’s Ada) and the naively wholesome bellhop (Sarah Rich’s Sid). David Lynch’s Twin Peaks and Mulholland Dr. are clear influences.

      This place isn’t quite what it appears to be. Rose’s sense of freedom is taken away (the valet will relocate her car from a tow-zone she was unaware of, which may not even exist). Her desires vanish as if to challenge her determination (first the script for her audition, then the abortion pill). She was informed a last-minute room became available, yet the heart-shaped key rack behind the counter is filled with unclaimed keys—not to mention Ada immediately "upgrading" her to a suite while she decides which key to use. Is it merely because “The Lovin’ Oven” appealed to her? Or does she somehow know about her pregnancy? And when Rose asks for a crib to be removed, Sid doesn’t apologize for its presence; instead, she expresses confusion, thinking Rose had brought it with her.

      This makes little sense, unless The Crown Inn serves as more of a manifestation of Rose’s psyche than a physical structure. This could clarify why fellow resident Lillian (Madeline Brewer) ambiguously dismisses the idea that they are in a hotel, and why Sid’s pink Bible (detailing the establishment’s history) reads like a narrative of events we’ve already witnessed. The question becomes whether these women are ultimately figures from Rose’s past, fractured identities (with Sid representing childhood innocence overlooked and Lillian embodying the cavalier risk-taker often subdued), or perhaps both. Additionally, whether the rooms (sauna, dining area, fiery vents, and locked neighbors) contain memories or fears is another matter.

      As reality blurs into hallucination, Rose’s body acts as a fail-safe mechanism to control the insanity when it spirals out of hand. Murder? Hidden sanatoriums? Better to have her awaken in bed as if it were all a terrible dream than to face meaning before she is prepared. Rose must contend not only with the baby, the audition, Lillian’s distractions, Ana’s indifference, and Sid’s sadness but also with the ominous presence of Martha, who wants her “property” back by any means necessary (the gradual bruising on Travis’s face as the story progresses is a nice touch). Themes of misogyny, guilt, fear, imposter syndrome, insecurity, and rage emerge. Rose has created a battleground of emotional and psychological triggers that keeps her confined unless she chooses to fight her way out.

      It’s a captivating exploration of the challenges of womanhood. Societal expectations and norms surface so frequently that Rose struggles to distinguish where she ends and indoctrination begins. Fry gives a commendable performance in the lead role—assertive yet unsure. She serves as the straight character in contrast to Lee’s overtly malevolent portrayal, Brewer’s embrace of chaos, and Rich’s representation of lost innocence that may be rediscovered. At times, Pacino’s concepts and intentions overshadow the execution, but I appreciate the ambitious risks taken, which create a formidable character like Martha and a memorable moment with Sid and the lentil soup. I Live Here Now never conceals its metaphors, yet it ensures that our interpretations stem from within rather than being dictated by the filmmaker. Your reactions may vary, but its impact is undeniable.

      I Live Here Now premiered at the 2025 Fantasia International Film Festival.