Trace Lysette in Monica (IFC Films)

In Andrea Pallaoro’s tender drama, the title character, a trans woman (a dynamic Trace Lysette) in the midst of a breakup, travels from California to her Ohio hometown to help take care of her estranged, ailing mother, Eugenia (Patricia Clarkson). She is first met by her seemingly amiable sister-in-law, Laura (Emily Browning), and later by her brother, Paul (Joshua Close), both of whom awkwardly interact with her. Paul, who seems fearful and uncomfortable, barely recognizes her, and Eugenia, who mistakes her for a new hospice worker, doesn’t recognize her at all. The burdens Monica endures—to come back to her family in need while also dealing with the reactions of presenting her identity confidently—are central conflicts within a story rooted in emotion and behavior.

Clarkson, who conveys thorniness and introspection through mere physicality and facial expression, has also played estranged mothers in Sharp Objects and Pieces of April. As usual, she is a commanding presence, even while embodying her character’s emotional and physical frailty. (“Eugenia means born into good genes. That’s not me, clearly. I hate my name,” she utters bitterly.)

The story of a family member returning home to take care of someone ailing is not new. Since Monica is told from a detailed trans perspective, it’s distinctive. The script by Pallaoro, who was influenced by his recent experiences with his mother’s illness, and co-writer Orlando Tirado communicates pain between Eugenia and Monica through the said and the unsaid.

There’s a haunted quality to Lysette’s enigmatic performance. At times, when Monica is at breaking point, she taps into a deep well of pain, but there’s also a sense of elegance and steeliness. Little moments, like a flicker of a smile when she tries on old costume jewelry, reveal so much, an inner joy that was perhaps once repressed. In a particularly strong scene, she angrily shouts after being stood up on a date, “I’m not your fuckin’ experiment” on a voicemail, but then calls back to ruefully apologize.

In both the California and the main Ohio setting, the film has a languid summer feel. Sensuously filmed on actual film stock in a tight, boxy aspect ratio by cinematographer Katelin Arizmendi, Monica possesses a grainy yet velvety look—gold and green hues pop. Of the many profile shots of Monica, there is one particularly arresting one: Monica smokes on a back balcony of the rambling family home, with a dried-up swimming pool filled with verdantly overgrown vegetation below. The atmosphere of the tranquil old house, its large rooms and scuffed-up wood floors, while insects chirp and buzz out in the backyard, is effectively wrought. Reflections in mirrors and windows are key too. The symbols of identity are apparent, but they are never too heavy-handed.

When Monica seeks escape and bliss, the film boasts a killer soundtrack, with excellent tracks from New Order and Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, while the anthemic Pulp song “Common People” figures in one pivotal moment. As with any good soundtrack, the lyrics mirror the characters’ actions or emotions in straightforward or ironic ways. One of Paul’s elementary school-aged children doesn’t exhibit gender-conforming behavior, and Monica recognizes this. Ultimately, the child sings an imperfect, wistful performance of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” a song that pointedly hangs over a film released in an era of continuing prejudice and violence against transgender people.