In Cold Light

A Quiet Kind of Running

There is a specific sort of exhaustion that settles into the bones of people who have been running for too long. You see it in the slope of the shoulders, the hollow set of the jaw, the way a person scans a room not for comfort, but for the nearest exit. I couldn’t look away from Maika Monroe’s eyes in *In Cold Light*, the new thriller from French-Canadian director Maxime Giroux. She plays Ava, a freshly paroled drug dealer who immediately finds herself framed for the murder of her twin brother and hunted by both the law and a local crime syndicate. (It is a premise you have seen a dozen times on late-night cable, probably starring someone holding a suspiciously large gun on the VHS cover). Still, Giroux is not interested in bullet-riddled theatrics. He is interested in the exhaustion.



This is Giroux’s English-language debut, and he shifts his gaze from the snowy streets of Quebec to the dusty, neon-lit rodeo circuits of Alberta. He brings an outsider’s curiosity to the setting. The tunnels leading to the rodeo locker rooms feel cavernous and indifferent, soaked in bruised blues and reds. Ava takes a job mucking out horse stalls under the judgmental eye of her estranged, deaf father, Will, played with weathered stoicism by Oscar-winner Troy Kotsur. Kotsur, who brought such immense warmth to *CODA*, here weaponizes his physical presence. He is a former bull rider who treats his children as if they are wild, unpredictable animals he does not quite know how to tame. The tension between him and Monroe is thick enough to choke on.



I am still thinking about a pivotal scene deep in the second act. Ava and Will, cornered and desperate, finally have the confrontation that the entire film has been delaying. They communicate entirely in sign language. The silence of the scene is electric. You watch Monroe’s hands shaking as she signs, her fingers tight and frantic, while Kotsur’s replies are broad, heavy, and full of delayed grief. There are no swelling strings to tell you how to feel. *RogerEbert.com* noted that the film "rarely lets up, but it is interested in character and environment, in mood and emotion, not merely plot," and that assessment feels entirely correct. The script, by Patrick Whistler, strips the dialogue down to the studs. People only speak when they absolutely have to, and when they do, it is usually a lie.



Of course, the film is not without its missteps. Helen Hunt shows up as a ruthless crime boss, and while she underplays the role with a terrifyingly measured tone, her character plays like a sketch that never quite gets colored in. I am not entirely sure the plot mechanics hold together if you scrutinize them for more than a minute. Still, maybe that is the point. Giroux is not building a puzzle box. He is capturing a mood. Monroe has spent the last few years perfecting the art of the terrified woman who refuses to be a victim, and here she sharpens that persona into something hardened and sad. She is not fighting to save the world, or even to clear her name, really. She is just trying to find a place where she can finally stop running.