Where the Crawdads Sing

If you're able to suspend disbelief long enough to imagine a swamp-dwelling girl with a flawless blowout, fresh outfits for every scene, and an uncanny ability to evade mud like it’s her job, then you might just enjoy Where the Crawdads Sing. Kya, the so-called "Marsh Girl," is played by Daisy Edgar-Jones with big, sad, and somewhat hypnotic eyes. She's meant to be a gritty survivor of abandonment, but instead, she feels like she just walked out of a Hallmark set, pristine and ready for her close-up. Apparently, the hardship of living alone in a marsh—without electricity or, one presumes, a washing machine—doesn’t prevent her from looking runway-ready at all times. If only we could all be so resilient!

Set in the 1960s, Where the Crawdads Sing tells the story of Kya, a young woman shunned by society, who has spent her life in the marshlands of North Carolina. After her family abandons her, Kya learns to rely on herself, finding solace in the natural world around her. Her peaceful isolation is shattered, however, when she’s accused of murdering a young man she once had a relationship with. Though the evidence against her is thin, her outcast status promises a tense and uncertain trial.
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The plot, in all its corny glory, does its best to juggle themes of trauma, love, and courtroom drama, but at times it feels more like a romance novel left out in the rain. Enter the two competing love interests: Tate, the earnest, sensitive type who wouldn’t hurt a fly, and Chase, a less-than-subtle “bad boy.” Neither of these guys felt believable for a second, as if they'd wandered in from a romantic comedy without any laughs. This tension-free love triangle might have worked if the film leaned harder into the mystery or upped the grit factor. Instead, it veers into what I’d call “PG-13 suspense,” which is to say it’s about as thrilling as an episode of Nancy Drew.
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The courtroom scenes arrive as if from another movie, interspersed with flashbacks and romantic interludes that don’t so much tug at the heartstrings as much as poke them with a well-worn feather. And while Edgar-Jones gives it her all, the film’s glossy, marsh-lite aesthetic never quite convinces us that Kya’s life was as rough and tumble as the script wants us to believe. She’s supposed to be a hardened survivor, but the film portrays her more like a delicate wildflower—Kya’s “grit” somehow always softened by lingering shots of sunsets and sparkling waters.

To the film’s credit, the cinematography is gorgeous. Sweeping shots of marshlands bathed in golden light are almost enough to lull you into a state of blissed-out ignorance. Unfortunately, that visual splendour only serves to highlight the tonal incoherence. It’s like the movie couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be a moody thriller or a Southern gothic romance, so it just did both, half-heartedly. By the time the credits rolled, I was left feeling that Where the Crawdads Sing was more swampy than soulful, as if the grit had been gently washed off, leaving only the scenic views and some melodramatic stares.