I didn’t plan to write anything about this movie, but it’s impossible not to. Manchester by the Sea got under my skin—it lingers. It opens quietly, introducing us to Lee. From the beginning, there’s something off, something unresolved. He seems uninterested in women—is he gay? (Not that it matters.) His behavior feels unusual, and the film skillfully builds a sense of mystery around him. We’re invited to ask: what’s wrong with this man?
And then, the truth slowly unravels. Lee is far more complex than we first imagined. As the most devastating line in the film puts it: “There’s nothing there.” He is hollowed out, emotionally dead, living in a state of profound numbness. Depression has devoured him. One of the few ways he can still feel anything is through violence—picking fights with strangers as a form of self-inflicted punishment. Masochism becomes his only connection to sensation.
Casey Affleck’s performance is astonishing in its quietness. Every word, every line, feels like it costs him something. You can see the weight of existing in every movement. The film doesn’t shy away from showing us Lee’s past mistakes—some of them terrible—but it also confronts us with the unthinkable tragedy that shattered him. We all suffer, as Woody Allen quips, in “such small portions.” But Lee’s pain is of a different order—something almost inhuman. Something no one would wish even on their worst enemies.
Randi, his ex-wife, becomes a vessel for his grief. Her new life—her husband, her baby—is a constant reminder of everything Lee has lost. Yet it’s Lee who bears the eternal weight of guilt. The grief is his to carry alone. His sadness seems like a ritual—like staying depressed is his way of keeping his daughters alive. If he ever felt joy again, maybe it would mean letting go—and that’s unthinkable.
It’s hard to understand what keeps Lee alive. He works a joyless job, drinks after hours, watches sports to distract himself from his thoughts. If this is all there is, why keep going? And yet—there’s Patrick. His nephew. Maybe the only thing tethering Lee to the world. In one scene, a baseball becomes a metaphor for his life. Lee finds it lying in a yard, plays with it for a moment, and nearly throws it away. But Patrick nudges him—urges him to keep playing. It’s like he’s trying to animate a corpse, to revive someone long gone.
The film ends as quietly as it begins—with the sea. The ocean was his brother’s favorite thing, and maybe it’s the only part of Manchester untouched by tragedy. It’s also the only place where a memory can exist without hurting too much.
Other thoughts: This is a film about life without narrative closure. There’s no redemption arc, no big catharsis. And that’s precisely what makes it feel so real. The flashbacks are handled masterfully—they don’t appear for the audience’s benefit, but as spontaneous intrusions, just as real memories do. For instance, when Lee hears he’s now Patrick’s guardian, his mind immediately goes to his own children. Not as a plot device, but because that’s what would actually happen to someone still haunted by trauma.
Even the difficulty he has burying his brother serves as a subtle metaphor: Lee can’t lay anything to rest—not his sibling, not his past, not himself.
He’s a hollow shell. As he tells Randi, “There’s nothing there.” He’s not a bad person. He made a terrible, tragic mistake. A stupid one. But he isn’t evil—he’s broken, drowning in guilt and sorrow.
This movie doesn’t offer easy answers. It doesn’t let us escape into fantasy. Instead, it forces us to sit with pain and recognize that some wounds don’t heal. Some people don’t "move on." And that’s okay. Because even in the absence of healing, there’s still love. There’s still memory. And there’s still baseball.