In my quest to watch everything Aubrey Plaza has ever acted in, I’ve watched some very good movies and some very bad ones. I’m delighted to count Black Bear (2020) among the very good ones. Sharply funny and at times relentlessly stressful, Lawrence Michael Levine’s mind-bending meta-drama is the kind of film best gone into blind.

It’s difficult to describe this film without getting deep into spoilers, but I’ll do my best. A filmmaker named Allison (Aubrey Plaza) arrives at a remote lake cabin for a creative sojourn. She’s hosted by pretentious musician Gabe (Christopher Abbott) and his pregnant wife Blair (Sarah Gadon). Allison’s presence in the house seems to cause some tension, and Gabe and Blair end up arguing over dinner. Allison’s casual attitude, self-hating tendencies, and ease with her husband convince Blair of Gabe’s infidelity, and she later discovers them in a separate part of the house, kissing. Things get violent, and very quickly twisted in a way that makes you re-examine everything you just saw.

On a pure filmmaking level, Black Bear is brilliant. The grainy cinematography pairs well with the remoteness and rustic nature of the setting. Color is a filmic element Black Bear handles exceptionally; it has a defined palette that it manages to balance between the film’s first third (set during the day, with cool blues and pops of red) and the film’s second two thirds (set at night, much warmer with an emphasis on burgundy, brown, and gold). Each frame of the film is impeccably constructed, like a candid polaroid someone took and forgot about in the back of a drawer.

The direction of Black Bear is also standout. The film trades long, still shots for a lot of moving handheld cinematography in its second half, which accentuates the shift in tone. The performances Levine draws out of his actors – Aubrey Plaza in particular, who has not been handed something easy with this role and knocks it out of the park – are nuanced and layered. There is room for sympathy for all of our three leads, despite their intense bitterness. Levine’s script is highly conscious of the little monsters that live inside each of us and crave light from time to time.

Here is where I cannot discuss Black Bear without spoiling it, so be warned if you choose to continue reading without watching the film.

Black Bear was born out of Lawrence Michael Levine’s experience being in a romantic relationship with another filmmaker – something he and Aubrey Plaza bonded over while on set of the Netflix anthology series Easy. Plaza’s performance in particular takes inspiration from Cassavetes films like Opening Night, and his relationship with wife and actress Gena Rowlands.

The second half of Black Bear, after an abrupt time reset, focuses on the relationship between Allison – who we now see as a temperamental and insecure actress – her director husband Gabe, and Blair, her co-star in an independent film being shot at the lake house. Highly underrated comedic performances from the minor characters (including an overwhelmed AD, inexperienced script supervisor, and hilarious costume and makeup team) are, nonetheless, secondary to Allison’s emotional breakdown, as Gabe and Blair manipulate her into a more raw performance by pretending to have an affair.

The film never satisfyingly answers the question of what, exactly, is real. After Allison is pushed to the brink by her husband’s thoughtless manipulation, we see the film cut, and reset for the second time, now to Allison writing in a notebook. The film ends with a particularly prescient shot of her looking up and making eye contact with the camera. 

Interpretations of Black Bear’s meaning, and that last shot, vary significantly. Some have posited that both narratives we see are scenes invented by Allison for a creative purpose. There are arguments that the first half is “real,” and the second half part of a film that Allison writes; there are also arguments that the first half is some sort of fever dream concocted by Allison to rationalize her painful experiences, and the second half represents reality.

While I lean closer to that second view in my interpretation of this film, I think Levine’s take is the best: nothing in this movie is real. Black Bear came from a dream that kept repeating in his subconscious, and the film sticks to that unreal tone throughout. As Levine puts it, the ambiguity is meant to emphasize the repetitive nature of looking for meaning in the story – like picking at a scab until it breaks down and bleeds – and it helps the viewer question the nature of who is creating and who is created.

In my reading of Black Bear, I see the second half – the meta-filmmaking half – as more “real” than the first. The first story is Allison’s attempt to return order to her life; to center herself in a narrative that, despite being the star, she is becoming increasingly irrelevant in. What we first saw as mean, but perhaps clever, in Gabe’s manipulation of Allison’s emotions for the sake of her performance quickly becomes sinister the longer it goes on. Allison spends the majority of the second half of the film drunk and barely functioning. While it creates humor as the crew tries to get her together enough to shoot, by the end of the film we see the toll making this film has taken on her – emotionally and physically.

What is particularly stunning about Allison’s character, however, is that she’s not helpless. One moment she’s naked, drunk, and sobbing in the hair stylist’s lap; a few minutes later she’s acting her ass off as if nothing happened. She is not weak and she is certainly aware of, and above, being manipulated into performing exactly how Gabe wants her to. The majority of the film, but especially the second half, rests on Plaza’s breathtaking performance. She tears herself apart in an embodiment of mental pain externalized. Her sadness and her anger are unrestrained, but channeled into an incredible performance - both Plaza’s and Allison’s meta-performance.

I see Black Bear as an exercise in catharsis. Not only for two filmmakers – Plaza served alongside Levine as producer – who are able to, paradoxically, work out their frustrations with the creative process onscreen, but also for Allison, who, no matter what the “reality” of Black Bear is, is constantly fighting for control. The Allison we start the movie with is a dissatisfied filmmaker, a former actress with a reputation for being hard to work with who makes self-described inaccessible movies that nobody really likes. She does not have a strong sense of self, considers herself anti-feminist (ironically, as she states, because she thinks she’s so messed up that a man should take control of her), and frequently either inebriated or dissociated. The second half of the film provides us the reasoning for all of this. Someone in the kind of relationship (and career, frankly) that Allison has would obviously struggle with her self-worth and creative drive. It’s how she chooses to operate within that framework that results in the two different expressions we see: acting out in the first half and breaking down in the second.

The strength of Black Bear is ultimately how well the two halves work in conversation with one another. Not just to conjure Allison’s character, but to explore themes of domineering masculinity, or even just domineering identity in art. For almost the entire film, Gabe is in control. He is in control of his wife (both of them), his film set, his creative output. But the very last thing we see in the film is Allison, acknowledging the camera. She is the one who is ultimately able to have the closest relationship with the artistic tool, undermining what we might believe about the balance of power.

Black Bear is the kind of movie everyone interested in film should see at least once. Not just because of its meta-jokes about filmmaking – it proves why scripty is the most important job on set – but because of its conversation with itself about why, exactly, we create the way we do. In an era where independent film is driven to become as emotionally raw as possible, Black Bear opens a dialogue about the consequences of bleeding ourselves dry for our art – and ultimately, in my opinion, the redeeming satisfaction and catharsis of doing so.