The title "If I Had Legs I'd Kick You" reads less like a threat and more like a desperate plea for support. It captures the crushing reality of being a parent, a partner, and—last and always least—your own person. Mary Bronstein has crafted an audacious, thrill-ride of a film that dissects the hurdles of parental stress with surgical precision. It succeeds exactly where "Nightbitch" failed, blending oddball mystery with pitch-black comedy and bleak drama.
Tonally, this film belongs in the same cinematic universe as Ari Aster’s "Beau Is Afraid" and Borgli's "Dream Scenario." Rose Byrne is fearless, allowing herself to unravel into deeply unattractive, dark corners to portray the mental tax of the modern woman. But the film's sharpest barb is reserved for Linda's career. She may be a psychologist—a shrink with her own shrink—but she is drowning just like the rest of us, struggling for air under the weight of it all.
8/10
There isn't any physical pain that can compare to the vast emptiness and brutality of internal pain left unchecked. Robert saw things. He learned things. He watched things grow. He watched life change. He made memories. He loved... And he lost. And that loss became a gravity no force on earth could counterbalance.
The only sanctuary left was that of his dreams, and even then, the pain of his waking life eventually found a way to haunt him in his slumber. What do we do when we are faced with such internal conflict? Where do we go from there?
It's easy enough for me to say, as I sit here in my warm flat on a frosty day. That we must learn to live on, and learn to find joy again, lest our lives wittle away until it's just another tree echoing through the earth as it sings its last song on its way down. But grief is a jealous guard. It demands we close ourselves off; it frames new beauty as a betrayal to old memories.
Yet Robert is besieged by so much beauty. So much, in fact, that the distinction between the man and the wild begins to blur. In the end, I don't think nature healed Robert. Healing implies a return to who we were before the break. Instead, nature absorbed him. The wilderness didn't take away his pain; it simply grew over it, the way moss claims a fallen log. He didn't find closure; he found continuance. He stopped being a man defined solely by the tragedy of his loss and became a feature of the landscape that caused it—standing as silent, enduring, and wild as the valley itself.
9/10
If you have seen the trailer for "I Swear," you likely think you know exactly what this movie is: a swelling, orchestral "struggle" piece, a melodramatic biopic designed to wring tears out of you by focusing exclusively on the tragedy of a disability. You would be wrong. In a strange twist of marketing, the trailer seems to advertise a completely different movie than the one that actually exists, leaning into a melodrama that the film itself refreshingly rejects. While the marketing sells a heavy heart, the film delivers a soaring spirit; where the trailer suggests a lecture on hardship, the movie offers a masterclass in joy.
"I Swear" is, against all odds, one of the funniest films of the year, and it achieves this without ever punching down. It is a hilarious, feel-good triumph that treats the life of John Davidson not as a medical curiosity, but as a vibrant, chaotic, and deeply human experience. The humor is never forceful; it arises naturally from the absurdity of the situations John finds himself in, allowing the audience to laugh with him rather than pity him. This delicate balance rests on the shoulders of a spectacular cast, particularly the chemistry between Robert Aramayo, Peter Mullan, and Maxine Peake. Aramayo is transformative, capturing the physical exhaustion of Tourette’s while maintaining a sparkle of wit that prevents the character from ever becoming a victim.
He is matched perfectly by Mullan and Peake, who together form the film's emotional bedrock. Mullan, often known for grittier roles, is allowed to be incredibly funny here, offering a deadpan, warm counterweight to the on-screen chaos. Meanwhile, Maxine Peake is simply luminous as Dottie, the nurse who becomes the anchor of John's found family. She plays the role with a casual, no-nonsense warmth that is vital to the film’s tone, treating John’s condition not as a tragedy to be wept over, but simply as background noise to a life that still needs living. Her acceptance—conveyed in glances and small domestic moments rather than grand speeches—is what ultimately transforms the film from a story about a condition into a beautiful story about belonging.
Beyond the performances, the film is a visual revelation. We have become accustomed to British period dramas—especially those dealing with personal hardship—being washed out in greys and drab browns, as if the color palette needs to be as depressed as the subject matter. "I Swear" does the opposite. The coloring is so striking that you actively notice it; the rich, saturated tones bring the era to life with a warmth that feels nostalgic rather than grim. It signals visually what the script tells us narratively: this is a story about life, not just survival. It touches on personal hardships and the frustration of being misunderstood, yet it never uses John’s condition as a narrative "one-up" or a tool for cheap emotional manipulation.
Ultimately, this is a film that asks nothing of you other than to be a little bit more thoughtful. It is an all-around beautiful piece of cinema that will have you welling up in one moment and barking with laughter the next, often within the same scene. It is impactful precisely because it refuses to be heavy-handed. So, this is my bid: ignore the melodrama of the trailer, trust the word of mouth, and go watch "I Swear." It is a rare gem that reminds us that even in the noisiest of lives, there is profound beauty to be found.
8/10
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