Some Kind of Beautiful: A Poetic Portrait of Resilience in a Fluid, Dreamlike Narrative

In *Some Kind of Beautiful*, published in 2014, filmmaker Michael Pietruk crafts a delicate, visually resonant portrayal of identity, healing, and the quiet reckonings that define personal transformation. More than a conventional drama, the film unfolds as a meditative exploration of memory and self-perception, anchored by the luminous presence of Laura Wasson, whose portrayal of the central character, Mae, abolishes easy categorization—nor does the film offer tidy resolutions. Instead, it embraces ambiguity, inviting viewers into a space where beauty lies not in clarity, but in the texture of flawed, unfolding existence.

Setting Michin abundance in the Pacific Northwest, the film draws on themes of impermanence and the alchemy of self-reinvention. Mae, a young woman navigating the blurred lines between grief, artistry, and identity, never speaks in clear declarations. Her journey is conveyed through fragmented visuals, poetic soundscapes, and subtle gestures, mirroring the disorientation and fragile courage inherent in emotional rebirth.

As critic A.O. Scott noted in the *New York Times*, “Pietruk refuses to simplify pain—his characters are not broken, but beautifully incomplete.” This refusal to sanitize struggle is what elevates *Some Kind of Beautiful* from a character study into a profound cinematic statement about what it means to simply be, in all one’s complexity.

Visual Language as Emotional Architecture

From first frame to last, the film’s visual style functions as an extension of its emotional core.

Director of photography Christopher Blauvelt employs soft focus, natural light bathed in cool greens and muted blues, and a deliberate rhythm of long takes that mirror Mae’s internal stasis and tentative progress. The cinematography avoids sentimentality, instead crafting a tactile, almost tactile intimacy—each frame a space where memory lingers like fog.

Notable is the use of mirrors and reflections, recurring motifs that suggest fractured selfhood and the layered nature of personal truth.

In one particularly haunting sequence, Mae stands before a cracked vanity, her reflection distorting as she watches a younger version of herself in a flowing white dress—a symbolic convergence of past and present, loss and continuity. As film scholar Claire Jensen observes, “These visual metaphors are not decorative; they are narrative tools, allowing the audience to feel the weight of time without exposition.” The hand-painted backdrops, inspired by still-life painting and impressionist art, lean the film into a lyrical realism that deepens its emotional impact.

Character Complexity and Emotional Authenticity

Mae’s character defies tropes of victimhood or redemption.

She is neither healed nor broken, but something in between—an embodied paradox of vulnerability and strength. Laura Wasson’s performance anchors this portrayal with a quiet intensity; her silences speak louder than dialogue, and her physicality reflects internal tension with effortless nuance. Early in the film, Mae struggles with a lingering disability—implied trauma manifested in subtle bodily rhythms—yet the narrative refuses to reduce her to a diagnosis.

Instead, her journey unfolds as a quiet quest for agency, marked by small, pivotal choices: choosing paint over pain, voice over silence, connection over retreat.

The supporting cast reinforces this depth, particularly Mae’s interactions with a reclusive art teacher and a distant friend whose presence unsettles her defenses. These relationships are never sentimentalized; they are raw, imperfect, and real—mirroring the kind of connections that truly sustain people in times of crisis.

Critic Ann Hornaday of *The Washington Post* captures this well: “Wasson doesn’t perform healing—she lives it, in every hesitant brushstroke and every break in conversation.”

Structure and Narrative Ambiguity

The film’s non-linear structure reinforces its central themes. Flashbacks and present-day scenes interweave without clear demarcation, creating a dreamlike flow that aligns with Mae’s psychological state. This fragmentation challenges conventional storytelling expectations, demanding active engagement from viewers.

The narrative does not offer closure in the traditional sense; instead, it invites reflection, leaving meaning open-ended.

Common reactions range from stunned appreciation to contemplative curiosity. Some viewers celebrate its refusal to exploit trauma for dramatic effect, praising its dignity and restraint.

Others find the lack of resolution frustrating, citing an emotional distance that feels more niche than universal.