Drift, a movie where nothing is quite as it seems, opens with water rushing up the shore of a picture-perfect beach, erasing sand footprints. Cut to Jacqueline (Cynthia Erivo), a troubled and unsettling figure who is far too easy for most people to overlook as she wanders around among the hot vacationers, shell-shocked.
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Because Jacqueline is a refugee, which is the most contentious issue in our cynical world. Although we sympathize with Jacqueline, she lives off packets of sugar that she steals from the neighborhood taverna Zorba’s Castle, washes her one pair of clothes every day, and makes a sort of home in a small cave a short distance from the coast. However, in a flashback, we learn of Jacqueline’s previous (and presumably recent) existence in the leafier suburbs of London, almost banal in its familiar beats, and her wealthy Liberian family background. “Same as anyone,” she responds when a worried tourist asks how she came to Greece. “Plane, ferry… luck.” is a sardonic note of humor that occasionally appears in the movie, skewing the audience’s perception.
Cynthia Erivo lends weight to this series of frequently delicate vignettes.
However, this is a somber movie. Drift, directed by Anthony Chen, is an elegiac work of long silences that continually tricks the audience by juxtaposing gorgeous views of the Mediterranean with horrifyingly violent memories of rape and murder that occurred back in Liberia—unthinkable acts of war carried out by young boys who are startlingly skilled with an automatic weapon. In the midst of all of this, Jacqueline, who is herself a little lost, tentatively accepts the companionship of American tour guide Callie (an entertaining Alia Shawkat). Their shared scenes are frequently tender and pleasant, yet they may also be confusing or even painful at times.
Cynthia Erivo, who also serves as producer, gives weight to this series of frequently delicate vignettes with a commanding performance of subdued strength and pride. Watching an unplanned dance with a crimson scarf as the sun beats down demonstrates how Jacqueline’s self-respect never falters, even in the face of the most heinous atrocities or daily humiliations. Erivo reveals a wide range of emotions through sparse words, giving her character more depth than Susanne Farrell and Alexander Maksik’s poetic screenplay could ever provide. She is a daughter, sister, friend, lover, refugee, and everything in between, silently pleading with us to keep going.