I think it's very telling that the filmmakers named this film The Woodmans, as it is the story of a family and not just the story of the now-famous photographer daughter who leaped to her death from a New York City loft window. Who that family is, though, I don't know. The surviving family members; all of them artists, all of them driven by the desire to create art to such a degree that this film seems like a nuisance created to momentarily keep them away from their art, are so cold, distant, and enigmatic that I didn't seem to learn much about them. There are brief moments of regret, jealousy, and sorrow; but they're very brief, and then it's back to art. The film itself is lovely; with wonderful shots of vibrant ceramics and haunting photographs, it is simultaneously reserved and guarded, raw and exposed. I watched The Woodmans on Netflix. Here's a trailer:
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