Let’s get one thing out of the way: Krisha was originally released in 2015. But in the year 2025, A24 decided to re-release it in gloriously remastered HD—because nothing says “celebrating cinema” like forcing a new generation to relive the emotional equivalent of being trapped in a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by a recovering hurricane in human form.
Trey Edward Shults wrote, directed, edited, and cast this film like a man exorcising demons from his family tree—and dear God, you can tell. Krisha is a 90-minute fever dream about addiction, estrangement, and why reunions are best left to yearbooks. It’s like Requiem for a Dream got blackout drunk on boxed wine and wandered into August: Osage County.
The titular Krisha, played with unsettling intensity by Shults’ real-life aunt Krisha Fairchild, is a recovering addict who returns to her estranged family for Thanksgiving dinner. Right from her first frame—bags under the eyes, hair like a crow’s nest post-divorce—you know she’s not bringing the green bean casserole. She’s bringing drama. And probably pills.
From the jump, you’re assaulted with dissonant string music and slow zooms that feel less like a camera move and more like the visual equivalent of someone breathing directly into your face. Shults doesn’t so much introduce the characters as fling them at you in a chaotic swarm of overlapping dialogue, passive-aggressive laughter, and wide-eyed glances of “Who invited her?”
The plot—if you can call it that—is simple. Krisha wants to reconnect with her adult son, Trey (played by Shults himself, because this isn’t a film, it’s a cinematic therapy session). She wants to prove she’s changed. But within ten minutes of turkey prep, you can feel the tension leaking like gravy through a cracked Pyrex dish.
The family is awkward, guarded, and pretending not to be waiting for the collapse. Aunt Krisha swans around the house like she’s auditioning for a Tennessee Williams play, all hushed proclamations and trembling hands. She peeks in on private moments, makes cryptic comments, and eventually attempts to carve a turkey with the same energy one might use to unearth a cursed artifact.
It’s impressive that Shults made all this on a microbudget and cast mostly relatives. But watching this movie feels like being forced to watch someone else’s uncomfortable home video collection—if those videos were scored like The Shiningand edited by a guy mid-panic attack.
By the 30-minute mark, you’re begging for someone—anyone—to break the tension. But no one does. Because this isn’t National Lampoon’s Thanksgiving Vacation. This is Family Trauma: The Opera, and Krisha’s singing the solo.
Let’s talk aesthetics. The cinematography is ambitious. There are long, fluid takes that swirl around the house like an anxious ghost. The color grading has the warmth of a dying toaster. The film is often beautiful in a “why am I sweating through my couch cushion” kind of way. Every frame feels like it’s seconds from collapse. Which would be fine—if anything else were happening.
But this isn’t a narrative arc. It’s a narrative flatline with occasional seizures. We get tension. Then more tension. Then Krisha drops a dish and glares at a bottle of wine like it insulted her in a past life. Then more tension. Then—oh! A breakdown! Finally, the emotional vomit geysers up in a glorious, cringe-soaked monologue. And then—cut to black. Happy holidays.
Here’s the thing: Krisha wants to be an emotional gut punch. And it is. But it’s the kind of punch that doesn’t lead to catharsis, just a lot of bruising and the urge to call your therapist. There’s no resolution. No redemption. Just a slow spiral downward until the family rejects her again and you’re left wondering why you spent 90 minutes watching a woman slowly implode in front of a semi-interested golden retriever.
The film tries to tackle addiction and redemption with brutal honesty. That’s admirable. But the execution feels like someone invited you over for a nice dinner, then played a slideshow of their worst memories while you sat silently and choked on dry turkey.
Fairchild is undeniably good. She’s mesmerizing—like watching a car crash narrated by Sylvia Plath. Her face trembles with layers of shame, rage, hope, and unearned confidence. But good acting in service of relentless misery doesn’t equal a good movie. It just equals misery with a lighting crew.
And Shults—bless him—goes all in with his direction. You can feel the influence of Cassavetes, Malick, PTA, and a thousand film school nightmares. The problem is, Krisha never decides if it wants to be a kitchen-sink drama or a psychological horror film. It’s stuck between genres, like a casserole that’s half-baked and still bleeding raw eggs.
There’s an extended tracking shot of Krisha wandering through the house, wine-drunk and unraveling, that’s technically impressive. But it’s also the cinematic equivalent of watching someone scream into a microwave. You get the point. She’s losing it. You knew that 40 minutes ago. Now you’re just stuck there, emotionally waterboarded by sound design.
The sound—oh dear Lord, the sound. The score is all shrieks and tonal dissonance. Violins screech like raccoons in heat. Percussion jumps out like PTSD flashbacks. You don’t listen to this movie. You endure it.
And what’s the ultimate message? That addiction destroys families? That forgiveness isn’t guaranteed? That family gatherings are basically seasonal hostage situations? These are real ideas. But Krisha doesn’t develop them. It just throws them at your face like hot mashed potatoes and then stares at you until you cry.
Final Verdict? Krisha is technically accomplished, emotionally raw, and about as enjoyable as drinking boxed wine in a locked sauna with your most judgmental aunt. It’s a film you respect more than you like. It’s cinematic spinach: bitter, necessary, and hard to chew.
Watch it if you enjoy emotional claustrophobia, long silences filled with unspoken rage, and the feeling that Thanksgiving is just another word for “trauma buffet.” Everyone else? Maybe just call your mom and settle for awkward small talk. It’s less painful—and there’s actual pie.
