Alexis ( Roberta Colindrez) is a young woman who has never quite fit in with anyone around her. She tends to keep her circle of friends extremely small – in fact, the only person she has a genuine long-lasting connection to his her father (John Ortiz). They run a small business, where they offer a very particular service – they help people die. Despite her inability to form connections with most people, Alexis has a knack for getting to know those who are on their way towards death, and has made a career out of comforting those who are just about to take the leap into the existential unknown. She and her father have been able to commodify this, and their work is quite successful, with Alexis’ endeavours to remove the fear of those who need it the most spreading quite widely amongst the terminally-ill community. This gradually changes when Alexis meets two individuals that alter her perspective entirely – the first is the callous Nora (Carson Meyer), a rambunctious 17-year-old who just refuses to die, even when everything points towards her imminent death, with her survival almost being an act of rebellion against the entire concept of existentialism. The second is Valerie (Judith Light), an eccentric older woman who has terminal cancer, and who hires Alexis as a part of what appears to be a joke, but eventually turns out to be a cry for companionship, since she has gone through life alone, something she refuses to abide by in her final days. The two women profoundly change how Alexis sees death, and she begins to question her own relationship with it, particularly since her issues have deep-seated roots in her mother’s death when she was a child, which has given her this warped perception on the boundaries between life and death, and made her an expert on helping those move on, something she wishes she was able to do for her mother.

It appears that the theme of death has become quite a recurring subject around these parts over the past few months, which is an alarming but fascinating development that has some basis in the fact that we’ve seen several works produced recently that look directly at the concept of dying, and the process of dealing with the knowledge that you’re on borrowed times, as well as the trauma that afflicts those who are left behind. It’s an inevitability that the majority of us fear in some form, even if we try and rationalize it and come to terms with the facts in our own way. We are finite, and there is simply no point in avoiding acknowledging it. There’s an admirable quality about films that are willing to have this discussion, since they take an important first step towards giving audiences insights into something we are all going to experience at some point – and while it may not be a particularly noteworthy film in terms of viewership or acclaim, Ms. White Light stands as one of the better recent examples of this very conversation that many works of art have attempted to have for a while. It only makes it more fascinating that this is a seriocomic portrait of the process of dying, a darkly comical glimpse into the lives of people on both sides, carefully put-together by Paul Shoulberg, who creates one of the year’s most exquisite examples of finding the value in even the most harrowing subjects. Ms. White Light is not a particularly pleasant film – it’s not only willing to have several serious conversations about death, it often has such a peculiar tone to it, which can easily be mistaken as the nihilistic, blasé disregard for grave matters that millennials are often accused of demonstrating in their humour, but as we venture on throughout the film, the director makes it clear that there’s a lot of value to this approach, which ultimately pays off in a very surprising, but not entirely flawless, way.

In discussion Ms. White Light, we have to situate it amongst the many films that have attempted to remove the seemingly taboo stigma around bringing humour into discussions on death – many works have managed to blend the two seamlessly, and despite often carrying some degree of controversy amongst those that don’t realize such an approach isn’t disrespectful, but rather an attempt to look frankly at certain issues through the binding force of comedy, they tend to be quite successful, if not occasionally heavy-handed in some regards. This film is definitely not the definitive word on the experience of dying – it isn’t even the most significant work that looks critically at one’s demise through  a lens of humour (which would most likely be the incredible Dick Johnson is Dead) – but it’s one of many that finds the pathos and the humour in the most harrowing situations. What makes Ms. White Light so special is its fundamental humanity – it never seems to be all that intent on making too much of a comment on specific details, and more about conveying a certain mood, from which many interesting conversations can be had. Less of a complete film, and more of a conversation-starter for the audience, this is a thought-provoking comedy that carries with it a peculiar set of quirks that function not as a means to deride the experiences of those that it is focused on, but rather in telling a compelling story that gradually grows into a series of heartfelt moments that seem to be able to say more about the human condition and what it means to be alive than even the most upbeat of films. This brand of nihilistic comedy is difficult to get quite right, but Shoulberg manages it with an expert aplomb, it’s surprising that this is only his second feature film, since he demonstrates a control often reserved for more seasoned veterans.

The immense joy that comes from championing independent cinema is often made all the more worthwhile when we make discoveries on new talents, particularly those in front of the camera. Films like Ms. White Light aren’t only telling memorable stories, but also giving us the chance to see protagonists that would never have any chance of being at the centre of more mainstream fare. This film is led by the immensely talented Roberta Colindrez, who is giving one of the year’s best performances as the titular character. Feisty, sardonic but harbouring a heart of shimmering gold, Alexis is a complex protagonist that is supposed to be prickly without being unlikable, a delicate balance that Colindrez manages without too much difficulty. Characters like Alexis aren’t all that rare, since they seem to often take the form of the modern angst-filled young adult that the millennial generation defines themselves as – but somehow she acts through these unnecessary confines and makes her character so wonderfully complex, without abandoning the particular quirks that make her so compelling. Judith Light lends her endless talents to the film as well, showing exactly why she’s one of the preeminent character actresses working today – not many people could bring such a simultaneous theatricality and gritty authenticity to a role that was likely written as very little more than an upbeat older woman hiding her fears behind a veneer of sarcasm and vulgarity. Light is simply exceptional in the role, and whether in her moments of endearing playfulness, or in the heartwrenching monologues she delivers at different points, its a stunning performance from an actress who needs to be recognized by the wider culture as one of our most versatile and ethereal talents. She and Colindrez work together so well, complementing each other with a vivacity and biting wit that makes Ms. White Light worth the price of admission alone, essentially defining everything that is notable about this otherwise very small film.

Ms. White Light isn’t a particular complex film, and as I mentioned previously, it does have its issues. Its third act is far too overwrought, especially since it is composed almost entirely by several montages where the protagonist looks pensive, while a melancholic indie pop song plays over images of her working through her emotions, punctuated by a few traumatic events and some heartwrenching monologues that are there to tie all loose ends, but become an unnecessary weight to a film that thrived on its bold approach to reduce death to something very simple. It doesn’t derail the film, but it does prevent it from reaching the powerful conclusion it deserved, and which we were promised by a very strong first act, which hinted that this wasn’t going to descend into the territory of overt sentimentality or saccharine emotion. However, besides such moments, there’s a lot of value in Ms. White Light – the intrepid decision to not trivialize death, but instead address it directly and with a kind of scathing humour (rather than make it out to be something entirely terrifying and intimidating) was fascinating, and leads to some worthwhile discussions that the film does not avoid having, especially when they’re incredibly difficult. This is by no means an uplifting film – there are moments in Ms. White Light where the director seems to be advocating against unlikely hope (or perhaps even blind faith) – but it serves the purpose of not only reminding us to cherish every moment we have now, but to not fear what is going to happen to all of us. It often feels like films that carry the message of not being scared of dying since its inevitable can be quite condescending (since the vast majority of us are incredibly aware of this fact), but when coupled with a very deadpan, stoic sense of humour, this message comes across in a radically different way. Undeniably not a film that revolutionizes the genre, nor attempting to say anything we haven’t heard before, Ms. White Light is instead a very charming dark comedy that contains a strong message, delivered by a wonderful cast and told with a sincerity not often found in more traditional stories. Just because a film treads familiar narrative territory doesn’t mean it lacks value, and what Shoulberg does with this film is certainly worth taking notice of, especially when we’re considering works of fiction that find the humanity in the most heartbreaking situations.