Through it all, though, there’s no real method to the madness. Grace and Jackson scream and shout—that’s the pitch their relationship begins at, and it largely stays that way—but we’re often unsure exactly why, beyond a vague awareness of the parental and martial responsibilities that weigh on them. Their relationship, despite being the heart and soul of Die My Love, lacks any actual complexity on the page, and as individuals they’re not fully believable, either. Perhaps because of this, I felt even more acutely aware of the fact that they’re supposed to be tired, depressed, down-on-their-luck new parents, but still look like the stunningly beautiful Dior ambassadors they actually are.

Lawrence doesn’t, however, let this stop her from having the time of her life. She crawls through the tall grass with the prowess of a deadly cheetah, barks ferociously at Jackson’s dog, randomly crashes through windows, drags her nails down walls until they bleed, and, in one scene, ends a late-night feed with her baby by absent-mindedly painting with her breastmilk.

These big, bombastic performances have long been the Oscar winner’s calling card, from David O. Russell’s Silver Linings Playbook and American Hustle to Darren Aronofsky’s Mother!, and she seems totally at home as a destructive whirlwind consuming everything in her path—though in her quieter moments, I found myself increasingly baffled by her motivations.

Several critics at Cannes have already labeled her as one to watch ahead of the 2026 Oscars, and if an effective comeback narrative is constructed (it’s been a staggering 12 years since her Academy Award win and a decade since her last nomination), then I could certainly see it—despite its outlandishness, her turn is pure Oscar bait. However, considering Babygirl’s Nicole Kidman recently missed out for a similarly out-there portrayal, also with copious amounts of casual nudity, it’s certainly not guaranteed, either.

Elsewhere, Spacek is an entertaining presence, too, and Pattinson is wholly committed, but both, like Lawrence, are let down by a script—a loose adaptation of Ariana Harwicz’s novel of the same name, by Ramsay, renowned playwright Enda Walsh, and Conversations with Friends’ Alice Birch—which gestures at trauma without digging its claws into it. The editing is frantic and the images that flash across the screen arresting, but none of this can distract from the fundamental lack of substance.