The film is unrated. Based on content, language, and themes, a parental advisory equivalent would likely be R for intense sexual content, trauma, and strong emotional material.
Trauma and abuse are among the most insidious forces in the human experience. They often lurk in hidden corners of memory, mutating and shifting in ways even the person living through them may not fully understand. For those who survive them, these experiences can shape journeys of discovery, endurance, and healing that stretch across a lifetime. Cinema, as with any art, has long been a space to confront and explore these dark currents. Whether consciously or not, echoes of trauma have threaded their way through countless films sometimes with profound insight, sometimes in messy, uncontrolled bursts. Kristen Stewart’s The Chronology of Water, screening at AFI Fest 2025, belongs unmistakably to the former category. Adapted from Lidia Yuknavitch’s memoir, it traces a life marked first by the sexual abuse of a child (played with delicate precision by Anna Wittowsky) at the hands of her father, then by the turbulent, often excruciating aftermath that shapes her adulthood (embodied with fierce complexity by Imogen Poots).
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This is Stewart’s feature directorial debut, and on paper, the ambition of the project is enough to set a seasoned critic’s heart racing. The Chronology of Water is neither easy nor straightforward. Its subject matter unspeakable in its cruelty is sprawling, spanning decades of a life scarred and shaped by trauma. The narrative demands a director capable of balancing horror, anger, sorrow, and resilience without tipping into melodrama or despair. And yet Stewart rises to this challenge with remarkable assurance. From the very first frame, she asserts a clear and uncompromising authorship, orchestrating a feature that knows exactly what it wants to do and how to hold itself together. There is no faltering here, only a confident command of a story that could have easily slipped beyond comprehension in less capable hands.
The film often feels like a kaleidoscope of memory and sensation, a collage of whispered thoughts, fractured images, and fleeting emotions. Stewart’s approach is daring, almost tactile in its intimacy, yet it never feels indulgent. Each artistic flourish serves the story, illuminating the interior life of trauma without overshadowing it. The effect is startlingly authentic: you can feel the lingering weight of abuse in every gesture, every pause, every tremor of the body. Stewart captures how trauma lodges itself in both flesh and psyche, making the past unavoidable in the present. There are moments when memory surfaces in small, almost imperceptible ways a flash of discomfort, a sudden recoil that are rendered with such fidelity you can hardly look away. Yuknavitch’s writing provides a kind of guiding vulnerability, and Stewart translates it into cinematic form with astonishing empathy. There’s a bittersweet, almost aching hope in imagining the audience who will watch this film and, for the first time, see themselves reflected, their isolation acknowledged, their struggle validated.
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And then there is Imogen Poots. To call her performance revelatory feels almost inadequate; she is nothing short of transformative. Poots is not new to the screen, but she has rarely been given the space to inhabit a role so fully, to command the audience’s attention with such layered precision. She brings Yuknavitch’s flawed, hurting, and resilient protagonist to life with a blend of fragility and ferocity that demands empathy, yet never shirks the complexity of her character’s moral landscape. Poots disappears into this role, unrecognizable, embodying every fold and fracture of a life both extraordinary and excruciating. It’s the kind of performance that lingers long after the credits roll likely the best of the year, and certainly one that announces Poots as a performer of rare depth.
A word of caution is necessary: the film’s depictions of abuse and violence are unflinching. The Chronology of Water is not easy to watch. Yet Stewart’s vision already unmistakably assured creates something beyond mere shock. The storytelling, with its dreamlike, whispering sensibilities, is as daring as it is precise. For some viewers, the fragmented, ethereal approach may feel alienating, and the weight of the subject matter will be almost unbearable. But for those willing to lean into it, the film offers a kind of cinematic solace. It is authentic, harrowing, and profoundly humane a meditation on trauma, addiction, and the tenuous, often painful path toward survival. Stewart’s debut is a masterclass in control, craft, and emotional intelligence, and it announces her not merely as a talented actor stepping behind the camera, but as a filmmaker with a singular, compelling voice.
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The Chronology of Water is, in the end, both haunting and empowering. It refuses the easy narratives of triumph or closure, instead embracing the messy, lingering reality of trauma. And yet, in this refusal, it offers hope: a testament to endurance, acknowledgment, and the possibility of moving forward, even when the scars remain. Watching it, you are left not just with admiration for Stewart and Poots, but with the quiet, resonant understanding that cinema at its best can hold the weight of human suffering and still illuminate a path through it.
Content Breakdown for Parents:
Violence & Intensity: The film does not feature traditional action violence, but it depicts sexual abuse and emotional trauma in a very realistic, intimate way. The intensity comes from the emotional weight of these events and their aftermath, including panic, fear, and grief. It’s harrowing in tone rather than visually graphic in the usual cinematic sense.
Language: Expect occasional strong language and adult expressions of pain or anger. The tone is raw and honest, reflecting the protagonist’s life experiences. There are no gratuitous slurs, but the dialogue may be emotionally harsh.
Sexual Content / Nudity: The movie includes depictions of childhood sexual abuse (handled with care, but explicit in implication), adult sexual experiences, and intimate scenes that are emotionally charged. Nudity is limited but present in context of the story.
Drugs, Alcohol & Smoking: Some scenes portray substance use as part of the protagonist’s coping mechanisms. Alcohol use is shown in adult social or emotional contexts; smoking may appear briefly. These are tied to character development rather than glamorized behavior.
Parental Concerns:
- Very heavy subject matter, including childhood sexual abuse
- Emotionally intense and potentially triggering scenes
- Some adult sexual content and substance use
- Fragmented, dreamlike narrative may be disorienting for younger viewers
Recommended Age Range:
Best suited for mature teens and adults, 17+, who can process heavy emotional themes and complex narratives. Not appropriate for children or younger teens.
Matthew Creith is a movie and TV critic based in Denver, Colorado. He’s a member of the Critics Choice Association and GALECA: The Society of LGBTQ Entertainment Critics. He can be found on Twitter: @matthew_creith or Instagram: matineewithmatt. He graduated with a BA in Media, Theory and Criticism from California State University, Northridge. Since then, he’s covered a wide range of movies and TV shows, as well as film festivals like SXSW and TIFF.