Lee

Most biopics feel like they were assembled by a committee of librarians and focus groups, resulting in a product as polished and lifeless as a marble statue. I walked into Lee (2024) expecting another prestige-flavored Wikipedia entry, especially since I was nursing a minor headache from a slightly-too-old granola bar I’d discovered at the bottom of my bag. But within twenty minutes, I realized Kate Winslet hadn't come here to play a saint or a "trailblazer" in the soft-focus sense. She came to play a woman who was perpetually annoyed that the world wouldn't let her do her job.

Lee follows the remarkable, and for a long time nearly forgotten, trajectory of Elizabeth "Lee" Miller. She was a woman who started as a Surrealist muse and Vogue model in the 1920s and ended up being one of the most vital photojournalists of World War II. It’s a film that feels deeply contemporary in its execution—not because it uses modern music or flashy editing, but because it’s obsessed with the cost of being "the first." In our current era of "representation matters" discourse, Lee shows exactly how much it hurt to actually do the representing when nobody wanted you there.

The Grime Beneath the Glamour

The film skips the tedious origin story of Miller’s modeling days, dropping us instead into a sun-drenched pre-war France. Here, Miller is surrounded by the likes of Alexander Skarsgård as Roland Penrose and Marion Cotillard as Solange D’Ayen. It’s a world of wine, art, and bohemian excess, but Kate Winslet plays Lee with a restless, almost jagged energy. She isn't comfortable in the beauty; she’s waiting for the floor to drop out.

When the war finally arrives, the transition is jarring. Director Ellen Kuras, who famously shot Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, brings a cinematographer’s eye to the chaos. This isn't the "Saving Private Ryan" school of shaky-cam warfare. Instead, the camera lingers on what Lee sees through her Rolleiflex: the quiet, haunting aftermaths. I was particularly struck by how the film handles Miller's entry into the war as a correspondent for Vogue. Andrea Riseborough plays Audrey Withers, the magazine's editor, with a sharp, pragmatic steel that reminds us that while the men were fighting, these women were waging a different war against a Ministry of Information that thought "fashion" and "fascism" shouldn't be in the same sentence.

An Unexpected Duo

The biggest surprise for me—and likely for anyone who grew up on Saturday Night Live—is Andy Samberg. He plays David E. Scherman, a Life magazine photographer who becomes Lee’s partner in the field. If you’re waiting for him to break out a "Digital Short" grin, you’ll be waiting a long time. Most comedic actors try too hard when they go "serious," but Samberg is wonderfully understated. He provides the emotional soul that Lee, in her hardened state, often suppresses. Their chemistry feels like a genuine friendship forged in foxholes, a rarity in a genre that usually tries to force a romance into every corner.

There’s a specific sequence where they enter a liberated Paris, and the joy is immediately undercut by the realization of what has been lost. It’s here that the film’s "Dark/Intense" modifier really earns its keep. The film doesn't look away from the horrors of the camps, particularly Buchenwald and Dachau. These scenes are difficult to watch, and they should be. The movie understands that Miller’s legacy isn't just about "strong woman" tropes; it’s about the psychological trauma of seeing the absolute worst of humanity and being the one tasked with making sure nobody can ever say they didn't know.

The Weight of the Unseen

What makes Lee feel vital in 2024 is its refusal to offer a tidy, triumphant ending. In our current landscape of "girlboss" narratives, it’s refreshing (if depressing) to see a film acknowledge that breaking a glass ceiling usually leaves you covered in cuts. The framing device—an older Lee being interviewed by a young man (played by Josh O'Connor)—initially felt like a cliché to me, but the final-act reveal regarding that interview recontextualizes the entire movie in a way that left me sitting in the dark for a good three minutes after the credits rolled.

Behind the scenes, this was a massive passion project for Winslet, who reportedly spent a decade getting it made and even paid the crew’s salaries for two weeks when the budget cratered. You can feel that grit on the screen. It’s a film about the physical and mental toll of bearing witness. It’s not "fun" in the traditional sense, but it is deeply absorbing. It tells a story that was literally hidden in an attic for decades—Lee’s son didn't even know the extent of her work until after her death—and it serves as a sobering reminder of how much history we still haven't bothered to read.

Lee is a powerful, if occasionally traditional, biopic that is elevated by a career-best performance from Kate Winslet and a surprisingly grounded turn by Andy Samberg. It’s a film that respects the darkness of its subject matter too much to offer easy comfort, making it a standout in a crowded field of historical dramas. If you can handle the intensity of its final third, it’s a journey that earns every bit of your attention.