Marketing movies like Sorry, Baby must be hell, and recommending them is hardly any easier. With most humanist dramas having moved to television, the theatrical space is presently reserved for hungry dinosaurs, superpowered beings, and extra terrestrial invasions. Stories of interpersonal strife and triumph aren’t really a ticket-buying proposition anymore, and new entries have to battle against decades’ worth of options when they’re finally available to stream. Well-observed chamber pieces are hardly anything new, especially ones emerging from the festival circuit with ‘indie darling’ practically tattooed across their forehead. The luckier offerings in this faux-genre provide a slice of life without delving into its knottier aspects, but writer/director Eva Victor isn’t afraid to let a little darkness intermingle with slow-drip verisimilitude, even at the expense of wider exposure. It feels destined for the queue, slotted beside a slew of I-promise-I’ll-watch-it-sometime propositions that struggle for oxygen behind a rewatch of a beloved sitcom or the latest episode of a reality favorite. These things tend to slip through the cracks, but this one shouldn’t.

Following an eccentric 20-something on their journey through academia and self-discovery doesn’t score Victor any points for originality, a fact the filmmaker silently addresses through the script’s time-hopping structure. Opening a good while after the movie’s inciting incident, Sorry, Baby finds Agnes (played by Victor) in a soft-spoken stupor despite recently becoming a professor at her New England alma mater. Neatly divided into five sections, the film winds back the clock to reveal the disassociation’s cause, then flips forward to chart its fallout, with only Agnes and her vivacious, empathetic best friend Lydie (Naomi Ackie) as constant components. Oh, and that hushed, golden-hour lilt that seems to waft over all these things like a vaporous barrier to entry, as much a siren song to devotees of smaller, compassion-driven cinema as it is an affront to those who prefer things big, fast, and loud.

This one decisively sets up shop in the former camp, luxuriating in the space, and immediately making a case for its creator on both sides of the lens. Writing, helming, and starring in one’s own semi-autobiographical feature debut is generally a male-skewing endeavor, a regrettable truth that Victor, who uses they/she pronouns, looks to undermine through a simple paradigm shift. It starts in front of the camera, with a lived-in performance that’s miles removed from the alternating machismo and duress of their masculine counterparts, stripped down to the studs until all that’s left is unfussy and warmly knowable. Autofiction only works if you know yourself, and the Agnes on screen, however faithfully based on her architect, is defined by a soft-spoken silliness and patient intellect that will be immediately familiar to anyone with a bachelor’s degree in the arts. She’s loath to flaunt her smarts, but being diminutive is a poor excuse for a disguise.

Her case isn’t helped by the ephemera on display, though the books and cardigans and sturdy wooden desks here make for a wholly believable, lived-in world. From sparring with students over the ethics of studying Lolita to flirtations involving a first edition copy of Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, the movie is stuffed to the brim with authentic markers of higher education, extending its reach to the folks you meet along the way. The jealous antagonist played quiveringly by Kelly McCormack is the only instance of overreaching, with even John Carroll Lynch’s lone scene of hardworn life advise playing truthfully despite innumerable filmic points of comparison. Then there’s Ackie, whose patented blend of naturalism and exuberance has never found a better home, alternating between radiant scene stealing and brawny emotional support. She’s the platonic ideal of a platonic soulmate, and if the character is a little too perfect for full-fledged credulity, it’s necessary protection against the oncoming crash.

Or, as the Lydie and Agnes put it, ‘the bad thing,’ toward which the film’s marketing materials have been notably circumspect, perhaps hoping to wrong foot anyone who wouldn’t buy a ticket if they knew what was under the hood. You can probably guess its nature, but Sorry, Baby is more interested in the aftermath anyway, slowly unveiling the myriad ways that our justice system fails young women, and doing so with a curious dollop of dry comedy. When the levers of power are this reluctant to budge, a sense of humor makes for as good a coat of armor as any, but Victor isn’t being overly guarded. A lesser storyteller would ultimately choose between triumph and tragedy, but this isn’t a film of absolutes. They’re not welcome here, replaced by confusion, elongated processing, and pain that dulls over time without ever fully receding. Clandestine honestly doesn’t really work in binaries, and while some will certainly take issue with the absence of full-throated rage, there’s a mastery in the way Victor makes complicated feelings so cognizable.

It’s not by raising their voice to a feral shout, but rather whispering quietly enough that you lean in, paying attention to every syllable, remaining close lest you miss the next pearl of wisdom or naked transparency. Most filmmakers inspire this level of audience command through feats of technique, stretching retinas through optical shows of strength, whipping viewers into a frenzy with serrated sounds and madcap editing. It’s all in the name of domination, which is a lofty aim in its own right, but Victor’s approach is much more intimate, less interested in blowing your hair back than tousling it with the affection of a confidant. They make the small things mesmeric, the tough things legible, and rudimentary micro-budget trappings feel new and sincere again. Don’t let it pass you by.