Eric LaRue Review: A Quietly Devastating Study in Grief, Faith, and the Limits of Language
Judy Greer in ERIC LARUE, a Magnolia Pictures release. Photo courtesy of Magnolia Pictures.
Michael Shannon’s directorial debut stars Judy Greer in a quietly harrowing performance, as a mother confronting communal silence, spiritual platitudes, and the irreparable consequences of senseless violence.
Screened on April 3rd, 2025 at 7:45pm, Angelika Film Center
In Eric LaRue, there are few answers, no easy emotions, and even fewer comforts. It’s a film not about a school shooting, but the emptiness left in its wake. Directed with somber precision by Michael Shannon and written by Brett Neveu from his own stage play, the film refuses spectacle in favor of deep interiority, examining the debris of trauma through the eyes of those it doesn't usually center: the parents of the perpetrator.
Janice LaRue (Judy Greer, in a revelatory performance) is a woman suspended in emotional limbo. Her teenage son, Eric, is in prison after committing an unspeakable act of violence—a school shooting that left three of his classmates dead. The town, her marriage, and even her church community have all begun reshaping themselves in the wake of the tragedy, but Janice remains unmoored, adrift in a sea of insufficient gestures, hollow condolences, and evasive theology.
Alexander Skarsgård in ERIC LARUE, a Magnolia Pictures release. Photo courtesy of Magnolia Pictures.
Her husband Ron (Alexander Skarsgård, with a carefully cultivated banality) represents the embodiment of avoidance. He has taken refuge in an evangelical church led by the domineering Pastor Bill Verne (Tracy Letts), a man whose performative spiritual authority masks a more troubling obsession with order and appearances. There, Ron finds comfort in certainty, in prescribed gender roles, and in the attentions of Lisa (Alison Pill), a congregant whose warmth doubles as social engineering. Janice, meanwhile, remains at their more restrained Presbyterian church, where Pastor Steve (Paul Sparks) offers sincere, if stumbling, attempts at counseling. But sincerity without insight can only take one so far.
What emerges is a portrait not only of a woman fractured by grief, but of a society ill-equipped to confront the complexities of collective trauma. Eric LaRue is as much about the limitations of institutional responses—churches, marriages, therapy—as it is about Janice's personal loss. Shannon and Neveu understand that people often revert to scripts in the face of the unspeakable: religious catchphrases, therapeutic jargon, and cultural mantras that function more as emotional shields than meaningful communication.
There is a conspicuous theatricality to the film, not just in its staging, but in its rhythm and cadence. The dialogue is intentionally stilted, characters delivering lines with the hesitance of people uncertain whether their words are helping or making things worse. For viewers unfamiliar with Neveu's background in Chicago theatre, the structure might seem awkward or even artificial. But the awkwardness is the point: Eric LaRue is about the performativity of healing, about the discomfort that surfaces when grief is forced into ritual before it has been processed as reality.
Judy Greer’s performance anchors the film with quiet, blistering precision. Her Janice is not overtly dramatic; she simmers. She recoils from easy resolution, shuns false comfort, and seeks a truth she can scarcely articulate. Greer plays her with a remarkable combination of restraint and rawness—each glance, pause, and clipped syllable carrying more weight than any monologue. It is the kind of performance that forces a reevaluation of her range as an actor and the kinds of roles she deserves.
Michael Shannon, director of ERIC LARUE, a Magnolia Pictures release. Photo courtesy of Magnolia Pictures.
Shannon, in his first time behind the camera for a feature, shows an admirable restraint. He never forces a moment or indulges in dramatic excess. Instead, the film unfolds in long, static takes, placing viewers in uncomfortable proximity to the characters. Amanda Treyz’s cinematography reinforces this stillness with muted tones and unobtrusive framing, while the editing leans into pregnant silences and abrupt transitions that mimic emotional dislocation.
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Religious language—specifically the kind used to gloss over pain with divine justification—is a recurring motif. The film is deeply attuned to how such language can be wielded as a tool of repression, a kind of spiritual gaslighting. Janice hears it everywhere: that God has a plan, that she is not to blame, that everything happens for a reason. These refrains, meant to soothe, only deepen her alienation. The film is especially incisive in its exploration of spiritual bypassing—a phenomenon where genuine pain is smothered by well-intentioned but ultimately unhelpful spiritual advice.
By the time the title character appears—briefly, hauntingly—the film has already made its central argument: that Eric LaRue’s actions, while shocking, are only the catalyst for a much more nuanced examination of how society metabolizes grief. When Janice is finally confronted with the physical presence of her son, it is less an emotional climax than an existential rupture. There is no grand epiphany. Only the unbearable weight of what cannot be undone.
RATING: ★★★★½
Eric LaRue
Director: Michael Shannon
Writer: Brett Neveu
Stars: Judy Greer, Paul Sparks, Alexander Skarsgård, Alison Pill, David Pasquesi
Running Time: 1h 59m
Rating: Not Rated
Genre: Drama
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