The Chronology of Water is not a film that unfolds—it submerges. Written and directed by Kristen Stewart in her striking directorial debut, the film adapts Lidia Yuknavitch’s acclaimed memoir into an intensely physical and psychological cinematic experience. Rather than offering a conventional biographical narrative, Stewart creates a work that behaves like memory itself: fragmented, invasive, and emotionally relentless.
Premiering in the Un Certain Regard section at Cannes 2025, The Chronology of Water announces Stewart not merely as a first-time director, but as an emerging auteur with a distinctive voice. Anchored by a raw and fearless performance from Imogen Poots, the film is an act of sustained immersion—one that refuses comfort, clarity, or linearity.
A Story Told Through Fracture, Not Flow
The film traces the life of Lidia Yuknavitch, moving from a childhood scarred by sexual abuse through cycles of addiction, sexual volatility, emotional dislocation, artistic awakening, and eventual authorship. Stewart resists the impulse to smooth these experiences into a redemptive arc. Instead, she embraces fragmentation as both subject and structure.
Events surface in brief, almost violent flashes, mirroring Yuknavitch’s own method of recall. The past does not arrive gently or logically—it intrudes. Trauma and desire coexist in the same psychic space, and Stewart’s film contends that memory is less a narrative than a series of sensations that return without warning.
Kristen Stewart’s Arrival as an Auteur
The Chronology of Water feels like the culmination of Kristen Stewart’s long, deliberate drift toward auteur-driven cinema. Over the past decade, Stewart has aligned herself with filmmakers such as Olivier Assayas, Pablo Larraín, David Cronenberg, and Rose Glass—directors known for interiority, bodily presence, and psychological rupture.
That lineage is evident here. Stewart approaches Yuknavitch’s memoir not as an adaptation to be “translated,” but as a consciousness to be inhabited. She is uninterested in coherence for its own sake. Instead, she builds a cinematic grammar that prioritizes sensation over explanation, allowing emotional truth to override narrative clarity.
Imogen Poots: A Performance Without Armor
At the center of the film is Imogen Poots, delivering one of the most exposed performances of her career. Poots plays Yuknavitch without sentimentality or self-protection, allowing the character’s contradictions to coexist: vulnerability and aggression, longing and self-destruction, intellect and impulse.
Her performance is not designed to be “likable” or reassuring. Instead, it feels inhabited, as though the character’s body is a site where memory, pain, and desire continually collide. Stewart’s camera lingers close—often uncomfortably so—making Poots’ face and skin landscapes of experience rather than tools of expression.
Visual Language: Grain, Flesh, and Water
Shot on faded 16mm, The Chronology of Water has a tactile, almost abrasive visual texture. The grain feels chafed, as if the image itself has been wounded by what it depicts. Context frequently dissolves, replaced by extreme close-ups where faces, skin, and breath dominate the frame.
Water functions as more than a motif. It is environment, memory trigger, and temporary escape. Whenever Lidia’s sense of self begins to thin or fracture, water returns—suggesting both obliteration and rebirth, danger and relief. Stewart uses it as a physical and emotional conduit, reinforcing the film’s insistence on embodiment.
A Film That Refuses Distance
What makes The Chronology of Water so arresting—and potentially divisive—is its refusal to offer distance. There is no safe vantage point from which to observe. The audience is pulled into the churn of Lidia’s inner life, asked to feel rather than interpret.
This approach will not appeal to everyone. The film is demanding, often disorienting, and emotionally heavy. But its commitment to experiential truth is unwavering, and its confidence as a debut is remarkable.
Final Verdict
The Chronology of Water is a bold, uncompromising first feature from Kristen Stewart—one that announces her as a filmmaker deeply invested in form, sensation, and psychological honesty. Buoyed by Imogen Poots’ fearless performance, the film transforms trauma into cinematic language without exploiting it.
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