The Chronology of Water takes its haunting title from American author Lidia Yuknavitch’s 2011 memoir. And yet, few films feel as deeply personal as this debut by Kristen Stewart, who emerges here as a natural filmmaker.

Like many first-time features, references abound, whether deliberate or subconscious: You can’t help but think of the faded hues of Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides (Coppola is even thanked in the credits for her feedback), the urgent sound editing of Terrence Malick, or even the experimental rhythm of Jean-Luc Godard. But from its opening moments, The Chronology of Water reveals itself as a film that lingers long after the screen goes dark. With Imogen Poots in the lead role, Stewart adapts Yuknavitch’s memoir to depict something raw and unsparing about the female experience—its violence, its trauma, its reckonings. The result is a harrowing, nearly overwhelming work, saved—and elevated—by the radical beauty of its direction.

Voiceover narration in literary adaptations is often a shortcut—a way to mask a lack of cinematic imagination. Stewart takes this risky tack with The Chronology of Water, managing to transcend the cliché. From the first scene—flickering, almost stolen underwater footage—it’s clear this is a film driven by a singular vision. Water, as the title suggests, is everywhere. It becomes a realm unto itself: a space where noise fades, and with it, pain.

But it’s the sound design that truly disorients. The rush of water, whispers, screams—you might think the theater’s audio is too loud or poorly mixed. Not so: Every element is calibrated to create discomfort, pushing the audience to the edge of horror. Horror, after all, is at the heart of Yuknavitch’s life story. Abused physically, verbally, and sexually by her violent father, the author recounts in her memoir a life shaped by trauma and constant escape—literal and figurative. Swimming, BDSM, drugs, writing—all were tools for survival, ways to erase memory.

Stewart conveys this violence not through graphic imagery but through sound. Though blood appears to flow freely, mingling with the purity of water, brutality is never shown head-on. Instead, she lets imagination do the work, choosing soft hues and cutting away just before the breaking point. She pushes us to the brink—then pulls back.

As Yuknavitch, Imogen Poots —often an understated presence in British cinema—delivers a career-defining performance. The camera often closing in on her so tightly, it feels like we’re brushing against her skin, she is both searing and stripped bare. Her body becomes the film’s narrative core—abused, observed, dissected, caressed, devoured. Over the course of more than two hours, it undergoes every imaginable transformation, dragging the audience into a deeply visceral, sensory experience.