Lakeith Stanfield

Die My Love is a fever dream of a film, more about a character’s headspace than a propulsive (some might say cohesive) plot. Just under two hours, it’s an impressionistic collage evoking feelings of listlessness and loss—specifically, feeling untethered, perhaps drowning. Adapted from the 2012 novel Matate amor by Ariana Harwicz, Die My Love is ostensibly about postpartum depression that veers into psychosis. Like If I Had Legs I’d Kick You and 2024’s Nightbitch, it’s also about how motherhood can feel more stifling than satisfying.

For all its fiery rage, “Die My Love” has an icy veneer that is distressing for a contemporary look at postpartum depression struggles. Lacking an emotional connection to the main characters, the sketchy narrative engulfs us in vague dysfunction and incendiary madness conveying traumatic motherhood pressures and marital decline. For all its fever dream fantasia and moody art aesthetic, this flailing psychological drama is unfortunately an empty vessel. Imagery instead of substance becomes tedious and frustrating.