Grief has a peculiar way of making the world feel as though it has stopped turning, even as everything around us continues moving forward. For teenagers, whose lives are already defined by the uncertainty of growing up, losing someone who helped shape their identity can feel particularly cruel. It’s this uncomfortable intersection of adolescence and bereavement that forms the emotional foundation of Mouse, a tender, perceptive and frequently heartbreaking coming-of-age drama from directors Kelly O’Sullivan and Alex Thompson. Following their acclaimed Ghostlight, the filmmaking duo once again demonstrate an extraordinary understanding of the complicated ways people process loss, crafting a film that understands grief isn’t simply about learning to live without someone, but discovering who we are when the person who knew us best is no longer there.
Set in Arkansas in 2002, the story centres on Minnie (Katherine Mallen Kupferer), a socially awkward teenager whose world largely revolves around her charismatic best friend Callie (Chloe Coleman). Where Callie moves through high school with an effortless confidence and popularity, Minnie is more comfortable existing in her shadow, their friendship providing a sense of belonging neither fully appreciates until it’s threatened. The girls have imagined a future together, one filled with theatrical ambitions, New York adventures and the wonderfully unrealistic promises teenagers make when adulthood still feels impossibly distant. But when Callie is suddenly killed in a car accident, those dreams disappear overnight, leaving Minnie struggling to navigate a world in which everyone seems to have an opinion about how she should mourn. What follows isn’t so much a conventional story about overcoming tragedy as it is an intimate exploration of the emotional contradictions that accompany it, particularly the guilt of discovering that life, however reluctantly, can still offer moments of happiness.
Much of the film’s emotional power comes from the unexpected relationship that develops between Minnie and Callie’s mother, Helen (Sophie Okonedo), a former concert pianist whose composed exterior barely conceals the devastation beneath. Drawn together by their shared love for Callie, the two gradually establish a connection that is as comforting as it is complicated, each finding something of the person they’ve lost in the other’s company. Yet O’Sullivan’s beautifully considered screenplay is careful not to romanticise this arrangement, recognising that affection born from grief can become entangled with expectations neither person is equipped to fulfil. Okonedo is magnificent, delivering a performance of remarkable restraint in which the smallest gestures and silences communicate an almost overwhelming sadness. Opposite her, Mallen Kupferer proves herself an enormously compelling young performer, capturing Minnie’s insecurity, resentment and tentative emotional awakening without ever making her feel like a collection of familiar teenage insecurities. Equally affecting is Tara Mallen as Minnie’s own mother, Barbara, whose imperfect but unconditional love provides a poignant contrast to the more sophisticated world Minnie has always associated with Callie’s family. The tensions between these women give the film much of its emotional complexity, reminding us that love and resentment can coexist, particularly when we’re too young to fully understand the sacrifices made on our behalf.
Refreshingly, Mouse also allows Minnie to experience the ordinary discoveries of adolescence without suggesting that moving forward somehow diminishes the importance of what she’s lost. Her developing attraction to Kat (Iman Vellani), a young woman working at a local video store, introduces a beautifully understated queer romance that feels entirely organic to the story. Their tentative flirtations, awkward exchanges and moments of unexpected intimacy offer some welcome levity, but they also raise one of the film’s most affecting questions: how do you allow yourself to feel happy when someone you love no longer has that opportunity? Rather than treating Minnie’s sexuality as a dramatic revelation or an additional obstacle to overcome, O’Sullivan and Thompson present it as another part of her evolving understanding of herself. There’s something especially moving about the film’s refusal to separate the excitement of first love from the lingering sadness of loss, recognising that growing up rarely allows us the luxury of experiencing one emotion at a time. The supporting ensemble, including David Hyde Pierce as a perceptive drama teacher, further enriches this portrait of a community struggling to find the right words and gestures in the aftermath of tragedy.
The film’s early-2000s setting is equally well realised, evoking a period of burned CDs, video stores, teenage sleepovers and carefully curated musical obsessions without relying on nostalgia as a substitute for emotional substance. O’Sullivan and Thompson understand that the smallest details often carry the greatest weight, whether it’s the particular warmth of suburban streetlights, the familiar discomfort of a classroom interaction or the way a favourite song can suddenly become inseparable from a memory. The understated cinematography and naturalistic performances lend the film an intimacy that makes its emotional moments feel discovered rather than manufactured, while the carefully selected soundtrack provides a gentle reminder of how profoundly music can shape our memories of adolescence. Admittedly, the final stretch occasionally leans towards more conventional resolutions, with certain emotional confrontations feeling a little more neatly articulated than the film’s otherwise admirably messy understanding of grief might suggest. But these are minor reservations in a work that so consistently resists sentimentality, allowing humour, frustration, tenderness and sorrow to occupy the same emotional space.
What makes Mouse so affecting is its understanding that the people we lose don’t simply disappear from our lives; they continue shaping our relationships, our decisions and the people we eventually become. In Minnie’s attempts to reconcile the future she imagined with the one she’s now forced to navigate, O’Sullivan and Thompson find something both deeply specific and beautifully universal. This isn’t a film interested in offering easy reassurances about healing, nor does it suggest that grief can be overcome through one transformative experience. Instead, it recognises that growing up often means accepting that joy and sadness are not opposing forces, but emotions we learn to carry together. Anchored by an exceptional performance from Mallen Kupferer and an exquisitely understated Okonedo, Mouse is a compassionate, quietly profound and emotionally resonant reminder that while the people we love may not always accompany us into the future, the love they leave behind has a way of finding new places to live.
THREE AND A HALF STARS (OUT OF FIVE)
Mouse is screening in select theatres in the United States from November 6th, 2026, before expanding wider on November 20th. An Australian release date is yet to be announced.
