Imagine a story where no one really says what they mean, where jellyfish might be more than jellyfish, and where the ocean is both a playground and a threat. Welcome to Hot Milk, a film that floats somewhere between reality and dream, much like one of those hazy afternoons when you’re unsure if you’re awake or still snoozing on the couch.
Directed with a heady sense of ambiguity and atmosphere, Hot Milk is based on Deborah Levy’s acclaimed novel. But don’t expect a neat, narrative bow at the end. This isn’t your traditional tale of secrets revealed and hugs exchanged. No, this film is more like a fever dream—sweltering, disorienting, and strangely addictive.
So what’s Hot Milk about? On the surface, it’s a story about a young woman named Sophia and her mysteriously ill mother, Rose, who head to the coast of Spain in search of a miracle cure. But dig a little deeper and you’ll find something far more complex: a psychological dance of control, repression, and yearning, all set against a sun-bleached landscape that feels like it’s daring you to look beneath the surface.
Let’s wade in.
Schrödinger’s Mom: A Woman of Many Masks
Rose (played by Fiona Shaw) is both helpless and controlling, sympathetic and manipulative—often in the same breath. She’s been in a wheelchair for over two decades, the result of a vague condition that no doctor seems able to pin down. But don’t let the wheelchair fool you—this woman wields emotional influence like a samurai sword. She flips from needy to imperious with whiplash-inducing speed. One minute she’s chirping, “I’m optimistic!” and the next, she’s curled up on a bed whispering fears of failure.
She’s a master puppeteer, and the puppet? Her daughter, Sophia.
But here’s the kicker: is Rose actually sick? Or is she emotionally weaponizing her condition to keep Sophia within reach? That’s one of the film’s many riddles. Like a magician who never shows her final trick, Rose keeps us guessing until the very end. And Fiona Shaw? She delivers these personality pivots with the kind of grace that makes you want to rewatch every scene just to catch what you missed the first time.
Sophia: The Daughter, the Barista, the Anthropologist of Her Own Life
Now, let’s talk about Sophia (played with eerie stillness and sudden bursts of emotion by Emma Mackey). She’s a doctoral candidate in anthropology, a part-time barista, and a full-time emotional hostage. She’s been tending to Rose’s every whim since, well, forever. Fetching water, monitoring meds, absorbing the emotional blowback. You name it, she does it.
But Sophia isn’t just some passive caregiver. Oh no. Beneath that stoic exterior lies a woman on the brink of a personal revolution. You can see it in her eyes when she stares a bit too long at the ocean, or when she quietly smokes a cigarette next to the very dress her mother told her not to smoke near. It’s rebellion, sure, but in lowercase letters.
Still, Sophia’s rage, her longing, her entire emotional universe—it’s all simmering under the surface, waiting to erupt. And when it does, the movie crackles.
Enter: Ingrid on a Horse, Because Why Not?
Things get interesting (and a little steamy) when Sophia meets Ingrid, played with trademark mystery and magnetism by Vicky Krieps. Their meet-cute? Ingrid gallops past her on a horse like some queer fever-dream version of a shampoo commercial. From the jump, Ingrid is elusive, magnetic, and totally intoxicating. She becomes a catalyst for Sophia—sexually, emotionally, and symbolically.
Their relationship isn’t a neat little romantic subplot. It’s raw, sudden, and charged with the kind of tension that feels both healing and destabilizing. Even a jellyfish sting, treated by a stranger, becomes a moment of near-overwhelming sensuality for Sophia. That’s how touch-starved and emotionally bottled up she is.
With Ingrid, Sophia finds a release valve for all that repressed desire. But of course, nothing in Hot Milk is ever just one thing. Ingrid is mysterious, sometimes cold, often confusing—and her presence raises more questions than answers. Is she real, a projection, a metaphor? That’s for you to decide. Or not decide. That’s kind of the point.
Gomez the “Doctor”: Savior or Snake Oil Salesman?
In this emotional maze enters yet another wildcard: Dr. Gomez, played by Vincent Perez. He runs the clinic where Rose is supposedly being treated—or at least where she’s paying lots of money to be poked, prodded, and asked deeply personal questions.
Is Gomez a gifted healer? Or is he exploiting Rose’s desperation? That’s the central tension of his character. He’s charming, sure, and he has the kind of therapist-style stare that makes you wonder if he knows your secrets before you do. But there’s something slippery about him, too. He’s just ambiguous enough to keep you wondering if you should trust him—or run in the opposite direction.
Life’s Elasticity and Other Existential Headaches
Early in the film, one of the characters casually drops this truth bomb: “Life is flexible; we can change it. But it is always elastic, so we go back to what we grew up with.” Oof. If that doesn’t hit like a philosophical gut-punch, I don’t know what will.
The entire film is built around this notion of duality—this tug-of-war between freedom and familiarity, rebellion and duty, love and resentment. It’s a story that refuses to take sides, asking instead: What if both things can be true? What if your sanctuary is also your trap? What if your mother is both your anchor and your cage?
Even the visuals lean into this duality. The ocean, for instance, is everywhere—beautiful, vast, freeing. But it’s also filled with jellyfish, floating like ghosts, reminding us that beauty can sting. That embroidered word that looks like “beloved”? On closer inspection, it might actually say “beheaded.” Yeah, Hot Milk doesn’t do subtle. It does symbolic, it does layered, and it does it all in a way that keeps your brain buzzing long after the credits roll.
Anthropological Snapshots and That Dreamlike Vibe
You’ll notice random inserts throughout the film—black-and-white stills that look like they were pulled from old anthropology journals. They interrupt the narrative flow, but not in a jarring way. It’s more like your mind wandering during a memory. These images serve as little nudges: reminders that Sophia isn’t just a daughter or a lover or a caregiver. She’s also an observer—of cultures, of behaviors, of herself.
The entire film unfolds with this dreamy rhythm. Dialogue is often elliptical. Scenes drift in and out like thoughts during a daydream. The music is minimalist, sometimes just one note stretched out forever, like the emotional tension between characters.
The atmosphere isn’t heavy, exactly—it’s more like humid. Everything sticks to you. You can almost feel the Spanish heat, smell the salt in the air, sense the slow-burning emotional wildfire under Sophia’s calm exterior.
The Ending: Real or Not? Yes.
Let’s not kid ourselves—Hot Milk ends in a way that’s going to split viewers right down the middle. Some will call it ambiguous. Others might call it frustrating. But it’s not the kind of movie that holds your hand and walks you to a clean conclusion. The final scene is open-ended and layered with symbolism.
Did Sophia break free? Is she finally her own person, or is she just trading one version of entrapment for another? Is what we saw even real? Or is it some kind of metaphor for emotional reawakening?
Answer: Yes. All of it. None of it. Maybe.
Why You Should Watch (Even If You’re Not Sure What’s Happening)
If you’re looking for a straightforward drama with clear moral lines and tidy emotional arcs, Hot Milk isn’t your jam. But if you love movies that simmer rather than explode—stories that ask you to sit in discomfort, explore contradiction, and embrace ambiguity—then this film is a feast.
It’s a meditation on dependence, identity, repression, and the long, slow burn of self-discovery. It’s also an exploration of female desire and agency, told in a way that never panders or simplifies. The performances are rich, the direction is confident, and the mood? Deliciously disorienting.
This isn’t a story about characters changing in a big, flashy way. It’s about those barely perceptible shifts that happen inside you when you start asking hard questions: Who am I without this person? What do I want when I’m not taking care of everyone else? And what happens when I finally say no?
Final Thoughts (and a Little Jellyfish Wisdom)
Hot Milk is a film that doesn’t beg to be understood—it dares you to feel it instead. It’s a poetic exploration of blurred lines: between health and illness, love and obligation, rebellion and routine. Every moment asks you to sit in that uncomfortable in-between space, where things are messy and real and unresolved.
It’s not for everyone, but for those willing to surrender to its dreamlike logic, it’s a stunning experience. One where the jellyfish sting isn’t just pain—it’s awakening. And the ocean? It’s whatever you need it to be.
So go on. Dive in. Just watch out for the jellyfish.
