Can You Ever Forgive Me?

There is a specific, suffocating kind of silence that exists in a New York City apartment when the bills are past due and the radiator is clanking a rhythm of impending doom. It’s the sound of a career evaporating. When we first meet Lee Israel in Can You Ever Forgive Me?, she is nursing a tumbler of whiskey at her desk in the middle of the night, surrounded by towering stacks of books and a cat that seems to be the only living soul capable of tolerating her. I watched this while drinking a lukewarm cup of Earl Grey that I definitely forgot to steep properly, which felt strangely appropriate for Lee’s aesthetic—bitter, forgotten, and distinctly unpolished.

Directed by Marielle Heller, who previously blew me away with the raw honesty of The Diary of a Teenage Girl, this film is a bittersweet ode to the "difficult woman." In an era of cinema currently dominated by glossy multiverses and characters designed to be marketable plush toys, Lee Israel is a glorious, prickly anomaly. She is a biographer who has fallen out of fashion because she refuses to play the publicity game, and honestly? Lee Israel is the patron saint of people who hate people.

The Art of the Grubby Hustle

The plot follows the true story of Israel’s descent into literary forgery. When she realizes that a genuine letter from Fanny Brice is worth more than her own soul—or at least enough to cover a vet bill—she begins "embellishing" history. She buys old typewriters, treats paper with tea to age it, and starts churning out witty, scandalous correspondence from the likes of Dorothy Parker and Noël Coward.

Melissa McCarthy delivers what I firmly believe is her career-best performance here. We’re so used to her being the high-decibel engine of broad comedies, but here she pulls everything inward. Her Lee is slouchy, defensive, and perpetually draped in coats that look like they smell of mothballs and resentment. It’s a performance of incredible restraint; she doesn't ask you to like Lee, which is exactly why you end up rooting for her. When she’s at her most deceptive, she’s also at her most alive. There’s a delicious irony in the fact that Lee only finds her true creative voice when she’s pretending to be someone else.

Then there’s Richard E. Grant as Jack Hock. If Lee is the anchor, Jack is the tattered, colorful sail. A flamboyant grifter with a "seen-it-all" smirk, Jack becomes Lee’s partner in crime and her only friend. Their chemistry is the heartbeat of the film. It’s not a romance—thank God—but a kinship of two people who have been discarded by a world that values youth and "niceness" over wit and experience. Richard E. Grant manages to make a man who steals from his friends feel like the only person you’d ever want to have a drink with at 4:00 AM.

A Eulogy for the Mid-Budget Drama

Released in 2018, just before the pandemic reshaped our theatrical habits forever, Can You Ever Forgive Me? feels like a beautiful relic. It’s the kind of "adult drama" that studios like Fox Searchlight used to champion—films that didn't need explosions because the dialogue provided all the pyrotechnics. In our current landscape of streaming dominance, where movies often feel like they were "content-engineered" by an algorithm, the texture of this film is remarkable.

Marielle Heller and cinematographer Brandon Trost capture a 1990s New York that isn't the romanticized Friends version. It’s damp, grey, and slightly cramped. You can almost feel the dust on the bookstore shelves. The screenplay, co-written by Nicole Holofcener (the queen of awkward human observation) and Jeff Whitty, is sharp enough to draw blood. It captures the specific tragedy of being a writer: the ego required to think your words matter, and the crushing reality that, most of the time, they don't.

One of the most fascinating "what-ifs" of modern cinema surrounds this production. Originally, Julianne Moore was set to star with Nicole Holofcener directing. Moore was reportedly fired because she wanted to wear a prosthetic nose and fatsuit to play Lee, and Holofcener disagreed with the direction. While I’ll always wonder what that version looked like, the result we got feels more authentic. McCarthy doesn't need prosthetics to show us Lee’s weight—she carries it in her shoulders.

Why It Matters Right Now

In a culture currently obsessed with "authenticity" and "personal branding," Lee Israel is a fascinating counter-point. She is a woman who would rather be a great fake than a mediocre version of herself. The film treats her crimes not as a grand heist, but as a desperate survival tactic that accidentally became her greatest work.

It also speaks to the invisibility of aging women in the creative arts. Lee isn't just broke; she’s being ignored. Her agent, played with a perfect, icy pragmatism by Jane Curtin, tells her point-blank that she can't get her a book deal because Lee isn't "approachable." The forgery is Lee’s way of screaming "I’m still here" into the void, even if she has to sign someone else’s name to get a response.

The film handles its supporting cast with equal grace. Dolly Wells is heartbreakingly earnest as Anna, a bookstore owner who represents a path to a softer life that Lee is simply too damaged to take. Even Ben Falcone, McCarthy's real-life husband, shows up as a sleazy book dealer who deserves every bit of the biting sarcasm Lee throws his way.

This isn't a film that provides easy redemption or a tidy moral lesson. It’s a story about a woman who did a bad thing for some very understandable reasons, and who found a brief, shining moment of connection in the process. It’s funny, it’s deeply sad, and it features the best use of a typewriter in 21st-century cinema. If you’ve ever felt like the world was moving a little too fast and leaving you behind, Lee Israel is the companion you didn't know you needed. Just don't let her near your stationery.