This article was written exclusively for The Film Magazine by Jacob Heayes.
Always Shine (2016)
Director: Sophia Takal
Screenwriter: Lawrence Michael Levine
Starring: Mackenzie Davis, Caitlin FitzGerald
Sophia Takal’s Always Shine traps two actresses in an isolated Big Sur cabin and lets their rivalry and insecurities combust into a tense, unnerving study of identity, jealousy, and fame. The film’s economical runtime and focused cast—anchored by powerful performances from Mackenzie Davis and Caitlin FitzGerald—turn what could be a familiar premise into a memorable, quietly disturbing psychological horror.
Written by Lawrence Michael Levine, Takal’s frequent collaborator and partner, the screenplay centers on Beth (Caitlin FitzGerald) and Anna (Mackenzie Davis), two friends at very different points in their careers. Beth is enjoying a rising profile—she lands a spot in Young Hollywood magazine and increasingly profitable roles despite the typecasting she loathes. Anna, meanwhile, struggles to book work beyond unpaid avant-garde projects and grows resentful of Beth’s apparent success. A retreat to a secluded cabin is meant to heal their tensions, but isolation instead worsens their fractures as the film slips from strained domestic drama into disorienting psychological horror.
Always Shine wears its influences openly—its themes and formal choices echo Ingmar Bergman’s explorations of fractured identity in Persona and the darker, dreamlike corners of David Lynch’s work—but it never feels derivative. Takal adapts those threads to a contemporary, feminist perspective, interrogating how women are seen and valued in the entertainment industry. The film’s most effective moments rely on suggestion: lingering close-ups, careful sound design, and a mounting sense of claustrophobia rather than gore or jump scares.
Takal’s direction is confident and inventive. The film opens with a striking title sequence that fragments images of cameras, film stills, and intimate moments, immediately dismantling the boundary between viewer and subject. That formal boldness continues throughout, creating a freewheeling indie sensibility—understandable given the film’s partial Kickstarter funding—that contrasts with the slicker, more conventional approach Takal later brought to studio projects. Here, creative risks pay off: the aesthetic choices consistently amplify the psychological tension between the two women.
Central to the film’s success are the performances. Davis and FitzGerald carry virtually the entire narrative, and both deliver nuanced, emotionally precise work. Many scenes are powered by small gestures, charged silences, and intense gazes; Takal’s camera lingers on faces in ways that make every twitch or flinch meaningful. A restaurant sequence stands out: camera placement and performance combine to dramatize bruised pride and simmering envy more effectively than expository dialogue ever could. Though plot points remain deliberately sparse, the atmosphere and emotional stakes linger long after the credits.
The third act shifts into a more surreal register that will divide viewers. Those receptive to ambiguous, mood-driven conclusions—audiences who appreciate the oddity of Lynch or the reflective paranoia of modern art-house horror—will find the conclusion satisfying. Others seeking a tidy resolution may be frustrated by the film’s preference for symbolism and psychological impression over literal explanation. Even so, the actors meet the film’s tonal pivot with intensity, deepening their portrayals in the process. At a brisk 85 minutes, Always Shine wastes little time, delivering a compact, concentrated experience.
Takal and Levine state their thematic concerns clearly from the start—fame’s corrosive impact, the instability of identity in an image-driven industry—but they resist didacticism. Instead, the film teases apart its ideas through performance, mise-en-scène, and a willingness to linger in discomfort. It is a film that rewards patience and close attention: the more you dwell on its small details and formal choices, the more it reveals.
While the film’s metatextual focus on actors and the industry may narrow its appeal for some viewers, Always Shine stands out as a bold, intelligent example of contemporary psychological horror. It reinvigorates familiar motifs—identity breakdown, rivalry, the gaze of the camera—with a distinctly feminine perspective and experimental energy. Takal’s direction and the two commanding lead performances make it one of the most underrated genre films of the 2010s, a brief but potent work that lingers in memory.
20/24
Written by Jacob Heayes
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