The titular beloved object of Ben Petrie’s newest feature is a film: one that his fictionalized self creates, with his fictionalized partner, and of his fictionalized dog, drawn from the couple’s Covid-19 era experience. When frenetic screenwriter Eric (Ben Petrie) convinces his partner Allie (Petrie’s real-life partner Grace Glowicki) to join him in shooting a film about their changing relationship post-adoption of a rescue dog from the Dominican Republic, we quickly come to realize that we are watching the metafictional outcome of the events depicted on-screen. While making a film about the making of a film is nothing new, in The Heirloom (2024), Petrie—of a sprightly new era of Canadian independent cinema—asks us to speculate on cinema’s place in our personal lives, as well as the place it holds in our collective consciousness.
The heirloom in question is thus simultaneously Petrie’s own film and the broader concept of cinema itself as a prized possession whose traditions are to be passed down through the generations. However, this potentially hackneyed idea reveals itself to be considerably more earnest than it sounds. The Canadian filmmaker treads between the realms of reality and fiction, as well as recollection and imagination, with sincerity and subtle self-referentialism. Avoiding the shock value of big reveals, the only explicit nod to the film-within-a-film is a rapid, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it boom mic that moves across the screen.
Petrie elects to not use his and Glowicki’s names, instead naming the characters otherwise. Other than the boom mic, there are no fourth-wall breaks that acknowledge the fictionalized nature of the work. A title card simply reads, “This is a true story.” With these three choices, Petrie says, “I am the author of a tale other than my own.” Doing so, he creates an object divorced from simply being a dramatized account of his life and one that stands resolutely as a self-sufficient artifact.
A deep, growly voice-over (“Bad. Bad. Failure. Fuck. Dumbass. Dumbass.”) narrates Eric’s crumbling sense of self-worth, both in work and personal affairs. Yet despite the film’s unabashedly humorous tone, Petrie refuses to reach complete satire, instead honoring the couple’s faults as unearthed by Milly’s entrance into the family, transforming the pair’s evolving connection into a frank depiction of conflict resolution in a healthy, supportive relationship. This is ultimately what Petrie seeks to preserve in his heirloom: not perfection, but growth.
Although increasingly heated confrontations between the couple unfold much like a two-hander play, Petrie captures space in a way that is distant from that of its stage counterparts. Furthering the film’s removal from theatricality and ingratiating performativity, he prioritizes (medium) close-ups over wide shots, telephoto lensing, and strong dynamism between day and night. The film’s final drone shot ends in the slyest of self-aware winks at the viewer—not visually, but rather, through a refreshing sonic turn. Petrie shows us that there is still a way to auto-interrogate without soul-crushing cynicism or putrefacting indulgence.
The Heirloom shows March 21-27 at Spectacle
