‘Hot Milk’ Review: Emma Mackey Blazes Through Choppy Mother-Daughter Portrait [C] | BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival

There’s a moment in Hot Milk that looks like a dream: a young woman is floating in the cyan-blue sea under the Spanish sun. It’s idyllic until a jellyfish stings her upper arm; her face contorts in pain, the tide grows choppier, and her hair clings to her skin like tentacles. She swims to the shore and treats the sting, but the red-hot wound is still pronounced. Throughout Hot Milk, the injury fades into a dark scar that wraps around her bicep. It will be a visual scar of this Spanish ‘holiday’ that lingers long after she returns home.

Based on the 2016 novel of the same name by British author Deborah Levy, Hot Milk embarks on a journey of healing and sensuality that veers into surprisingly dark territory. The film’s central premise is the strained mother-daughter connection between mid-20s anthropologist Sofia (Sex Education’s Emma Mackey) and her mother, Rose (Killing Eve’s Fiona Shaw), who uses a wheelchair. The pair have travelled to the Spanish seaside town of Almería to meet with Dr Gómez (The Aeronauts’ Vincent Perez), an unconventional consultant, in an attempt to find a diagnosis and cure for Rose’s mysterious illness that has left her unable to walk.

Writer-director Rebecca Lenkiewicz makes her debut in the director’s chair with Hot Milk after being in the writer’s room on Disobedience, Colette, and She Said. It seems apt that her first directorial credit comes after being a writer on these films unified by their focus on female rebellion and reclamation of autonomy. Similar themes float to the surface of Hot Milk, with a young woman clambering to discover her sense of identity and an Irish mother set on doing things only her way. 

Hot Milk opens with a quote from prolific artist Louise Bourgeois: “I have been to hell and back. And let me tell you, it was wonderful.” It may seem rather melodramatic, considering the opening shots of the tide lapping at the golden sand. Still, just a few moments in, Sofia purposely ignores her ringing phone, smokes close to the washing despite her mother’s annoyed pleas and refers to her mother as Rose. There’s a bitter coldness that cuts through the sun-soaked visuals. Sofia’s unending list of responsibilities for her mother’s care (her father has been absent for over a decade) has weighed on her for years. It is from this pent-up frustration, seemingly a desire to forge her sense of self separate from her mother, that Sofia and Ingrid’s (Phantom Thread’s Vicky Krieps) paths cross. Enchanted by her magnetic charm and free-spirited bohemian whimsy, Sofia is lured into the older seamstress’ orbit. 

While Levy’s novel offers a punchy introduction to Sofia, Lenkiewicz’s film is more subdued. It takes a moment to warm up to the central trio. Ingrid’s entrance is particularly memorable, she arrives in slow motion on horseback, introducing playful humour to Sofia’s melancholy, and the latter quickly latches on to their intensely encompassing romance. The moonlit rendezvous between the two women is magical, their silhouettes overlapping from quick kisses and grasping fingers. Their bond deepens as they open up to each other, bonding over turbulent and traumatic childhoods.

Though compelling, when these narrative threads converge, Lenkiewicz’s script falters. Hopping between the cement and wood line building of Gomez’s treatment centre and the open beaches, the rapid bluntness of scenes leaves the internal conflicts of Hot Milk’s characters thinly sketched. Most prominently, there are times that Sofia’s behaviour devolves into that of a petulant child. It’s here Mackey overacts with hefty sighs and snarling frowns, perhaps trying to compensate for the character’s lack of definition. Many of her scenes grow repetitive, and the rich interior life of Levy’s Sofia doesn’t translate effectively to the screen. Her counterparts, Shaw and Krieps, both superb actors, clarify Hot Milk’s ambiguities in places. Shaw’s dark comedic flourishes are especially welcome.

The film features several visually pleasing vignettes of sunny shorelines and golden hour dinners that are equally majestic. Christopher Blauvelt’s cinematography is beautiful. Still, the odd visual interludes of Sofia in her mother’s wheelchair feel like a poor choice for symbolising her turmoil. Costume designer Sophie O’Neill honours the red bikini on the book cover and dresses Sofia in a range of neutral linens and a sheer white shirt that billows in the sea breeze. The latter looks as though it gives Sofia wings, which she would love to have to fly away from her overbearing mother. 

As the intensity becomes claustrophobic, Hot Milk reaches its final crescendo and attempts to burst out of the liminal space it has occupied. There’s plenty of grittiness, just not enough depth for a solid landing. At its best, the film focuses on the complicated mother-daughter dynamic, their back and forth littered with double meaning. When Rose asks, “What would you do if I could walk?” Sofia responds, “I’d be happy.” Happy because her mother would be cured? Or happy because her caring responsibilities would vanish? The answer seems to float somewhere in the in-between.

Grade: C

This review is from the 2025 BFI Flare: London LGBTQIA+ Film Festival.

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Emily Maskell

Emily Maskell is a film critic and culture writer from the UK. She has written for BBC Culture, GQ, W Mag, Teen Vogue, and more. She is the author of Icons of Cinema: Baz Luhrmann. You can follow Emily on Twitter: @EmMaskell

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