Ingrid Goes West

There is a specific kind of spiritual vertigo that comes from scrolling through the life of a stranger at 3 AM, watching their perfectly lit vacation photos until you feel like you know the smell of their laundry detergent. We’ve all been there—hovering over a "like" button, wondering why our own lives feel like the unedited B-roll of a much better movie. I watched Ingrid Goes West on a Tuesday night while eating a lukewarm bowl of ramen, and the steam from the broth actually fogged up my glasses during the most awkward scene, which felt like a merciful intervention from the universe. This movie doesn’t just lean into the cringe; it sets up camp there and refuses to leave.

Released in 2017, just as the "Instagram Lifestyle" was transitioning from a hobby into a terrifying global economy, Ingrid Goes West remains one of the sharpest scalpels ever taken to the digital age. It’s a pitch-black comedy that feels more like a horror movie the longer you sit with it, mostly because it refuses to let the audience off the hook.

The Patron Saint of Unchecked DMs

Aubrey Plaza has built a career on being the weirdest person in the room, but as Ingrid Thorburn, she taps into something far more jagged than her usual deadpan schtick. Ingrid is a woman grieving the loss of her mother and her own sense of self, stumbling into a full-blown obsession with Taylor Sloane (Elizabeth Olsen), a Venice Beach influencer who spends her days "curating" a life of avocado toast and Joan Didion novels.

Plaza is a revelation here. She plays Ingrid with a desperate, vibrating need for connection that is equal parts heartbreaking and repulsive. She is essentially the Joker for people who buy $12 candles. When she receives a generic comment from Taylor on a photo, she doesn’t just smile; she packs her bags, cashes out her inheritance, and moves to Los Angeles to "accidentally" run into her idol. It’s a performance of immense physical commitment—watch the way Plaza’s face falls when she realizes she’s being excluded, or the frantic, jagged way she tries to mimic Taylor’s speech patterns. It’s painful to watch, and I loved every agonizing second of it.

The Aesthetic of Emptiness

Director Matt Spicer, making a hell of a debut, nails the visual language of the "Influencer" era. The film is bathed in that soft, golden California light that makes everything look like it’s been run through a permanent 'Valencia' filter. But beneath the sun-drenched surfaces, there’s a persistent rot. Elizabeth Olsen is terrifyingly good as Taylor, capturing that specific brand of vapid "kindness" that masks a total lack of substance. She’s the kind of person who quotes books she hasn’t read and calls everyone her "best friend" five minutes after meeting them.

The dynamic between Ingrid and Taylor is a fascinating look at the transactionality of modern friendship. Ingrid wants a life; Taylor wants an audience. It’s a match made in digital hell. Their chemistry is a masterclass in performative intimacy. However, the real soul of the movie—and the only reason it doesn't descend into total nihilism—is O’Shea Jackson Jr. as Dan Pinto.

Dan is Ingrid’s landlord, an aspiring screenwriter obsessed with Batman, and he is quite literally the only person in the film who is honest about who he is. Jackson Jr., who proved he had chops in Straight Outta Compton, brings a warmth and goofy charm that the movie desperately needs. His chemistry with Plaza is unexpected and genuinely sweet, making the inevitable train wreck of Ingrid’s lies hurt that much more.

A Time Capsule of the Pre-Burnout Era

Watching this now, it’s wild to think it came out only a few years ago. It feels like a dispatch from a slightly more innocent time, before we all collectively realized that social media was melting our brains. The film’s screenplay (by Spicer and David Branson Smith, who won a Waldo Salt award at Sundance for it) manages to be biting without feeling like a "get off my lawn" lecture from a boomer. It understands the allure of the screen; it knows why we want to be Taylor, even as it shows us how miserable she actually is.

The production was a scrappy affair—Aubrey Plaza actually produced it herself to ensure it kept its sharp edges. They filmed on location in Venice and Joshua Tree, capturing the exact spots that influencers actually haunt. There’s a scene involving a stolen dog that feels so plausible in its absurdity that you can almost see it trending on Twitter. The movie also features Wyatt Russell (who we later saw as the "wrong" Captain America) as Taylor’s husband, a "struggling artist" whose work consists of painting hashtags on old canvases. It’s a scathing, hilarious indictment of the LA creative scene.

Ingrid Goes West is a neon-lit car crash that you can't look away from, mostly because you might see your own reflection in the windshield. It’s a rare drama that manages to be hilariously funny while maintaining a sense of genuine psychological dread. It doesn't offer easy answers or a cozy redemption arc, which is exactly why it sticks with you long after the credits roll. If you’ve ever felt the urge to delete all your apps and move to a cabin in the woods, this is the movie for you. Just maybe don't check your notifications while you're watching it.