Three sisters gather to say goodbye, but find themselves rediscovering what it means to be family.
In His Three Daughters, director Azazel Jacobs crafts an intimate chamber drama that unfolds almost entirely within the confines of a modest New York apartment. Three sisters — Katie, Christina, and Rachel — return home as their father enters his final days, their reunion marked by an uneasy mix of duty, love, and long-buried grievances. The air is heavy with unspoken words, and every glance carries the weight of shared history.
Katie, the eldest, approaches the situation with control and precision, determined to manage every detail. Christina, the middle sister, seeks harmony, her gentle nature making her both a mediator and a silent sufferer. Rachel, the youngest, hides her vulnerability beneath sarcasm and detachment, preferring avoidance to confrontation. Together, they form a delicate triangle of personalities, each coping with impending loss in her own way.
The apartment becomes more than just a setting — it’s a living container of memories, arguments, and love. Walls feel closer as hours pass, and the rhythm of hospice visits, whispered phone calls, and restless nights turns the space into both sanctuary and prison. Jacobs uses the confined location to amplify tension, drawing the audience into a claustrophobic emotional landscape.
What sets His Three Daughters apart is its balance between sorrow and unexpected humor. Amid the heaviness of death’s approach, there are bursts of laughter, absurd exchanges over minor details, and moments of warmth that remind us grief is rarely one-dimensional. It’s in these smaller beats that the sisters’ humanity shines through, making their struggles relatable and deeply affecting.
Performances by Carrie Coon, Elizabeth Olsen, and Natasha Lyonne breathe life into the script’s emotional intricacies. Coon’s Katie simmers with nervous energy, Olsen’s Christina radiates quiet empathy, and Lyonne’s Rachel delivers a bittersweet blend of defiance and tenderness. Their chemistry is unforced, their interactions raw and believable, as though we’ve stepped directly into a real family’s private crisis.
By its end, His Three Daughters offers no grand resolution, only a fragile truce — a recognition that love, in all its messy forms, persists even when words fail. The sisters may not leave with all wounds healed, but they depart with a deeper understanding of one another, and perhaps of themselves. It’s a film that lingers like a quiet memory, refusing to fade quickly.
