‘Carousel’ And the Little Lies We Tell Ourselves —Sundance

It’s quite easy to fall into a pattern of living. Having a routine isn’t necessarily a bad thing. However, one can find themselves so safe inside their perfectly constructed life that anything that might upend it seems scary. It’s those little lies we tell ourselves that surviving is the same as thriving, that keep us on what Rachel Lambert’s drama would describe as a carousel. And while it might be fun to ride in the beginning, at some point, you’ll want to get off. 

As Carousel opens, we’re met with a quaint neighborhood. We see Noah (Chris Pine; Dungeons & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves) in his morning routine, leaving the house. His daughter Maya (Abby Ryder Fortson; Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret.) in tow, gets in the car and slams the door. Noah then scoops up a worm and places it in the grass so he doesn’t run over it as he backs out of the driveway. Noah is a divorced dad and town physician who shares his late father’s practice with his father’s previous partner, Sam (Sam Waterston; Grace and Frankie). Everything seems to be business as usual until Noah’s old love, Rebecca (Jenny Slate; Dying for Sex), returns to town. This is when the carousel begins to spin out of control. 

Writer-director Rachel Lambert (Sometimes I Think About Dying) uses the ride of a carousel to construct the flow of this film. The film is somewhat circular in the beginning. Life is just going on as normal. Things happen, and they’re somewhat ignored or shoved under the rug. Maya has a breakdown on the way to school, and Noah, while comforting, still doesn’t see her outbursts as a cry for help. Life goes on. The practice is drowning under bills, and Noah just keeps going, business as usual. Nothing seems to be big enough to stop the spin until Rebecca arrives. 

Lambert shoots several scenes tightly. She uses extreme close-ups and frames subjects at the edge of the screen, which visually suggests the characters are being forced out of their comfort zone or that things are coming to a head. And they do, somewhat. Lambert’s writing isn’t direct; she invites the audience into a story already in motion. It’s as if we’re coming into the third chapter of a book. There’s something brewing beneath the surface, a past that’s happened, scars from wounds, but we don’t know exactly what that thing is. What is clear is that these people, Noah, Maya, and Rebecca, are orbiting around each other with their own pain that is in need of healing. But they’re also afraid to break routine and let down the mask long enough to address whatever the “it” is. 

Cleveland, Ohio, serves as a wonderful backdrop against this drama. We see an idyllic, settled life against the stark contrast of the unresolved turmoil churning within the characters. Everything looks good, but beneath the surface, Noah’s daughter is acting out due to unresolved feelings regarding her parents’ divorce. And while Rebecca notices the issues with Maya, she’s blind to her own. She confronts Noah about Maya’s perceived struggles, and Noah is instantly defensive. In his experience, Rebecca hasn’t been “all in” when it comes to their relationship, and her stepping in to talk about Maya is a boundary he doesn’t want her crossing because he’s unsure if she’ll stick around this time. Again, this is only what we can infer from the clues. We can see the fallout from events, but we don’t have enough context to really feel connected to these characters or fully invest in their outcomes. 

At an amusement park, the carousel is always the ride that anyone can get on. It’s the safest option. But life is about more than playing it safe. Some of the best moments are waiting around the corner of the very thing that scares us most. It’s in that way that Carousel still feels complete. It illustrates how we can become lost in routine, stuck in our ways, and afraid to risk anything new. Yet without that risk, we stop living, doomed to ride the same unfulfilled loop forever.