The Chronology of Water, 2025.
text by Emma Grimes
Kristen Stewart’s The Chronology of Water is an audacious debut—a film about girlhood, the making of sexual identity, and the long work of recovering one’s voice. Adapted from Lidia Yuknavitch’s 2011 memoir, it follows a childhood warped by parental abuse, a sanctuary found in swimming, and finally her odyssey into becoming a writer.
Stories of people finding their voices are familiar, as are tales of how art heals and can redeem suffering. The Chronology of Water contains both, but by being anchored to the ruthless specificity of Lidia’s life, it avoids falling into the cliched catharsis that such tales often deliver. Stewart cares about individual formation. She’s interested in how a self, particularly a female one, comes together inside an incessant, gendered environment of surveillance, and how desire takes shape within this structure.
The form of the movie is fragmented and disjointed, which Stewart carries over from the memoir. Early in the book, Yuknavitch writes: “I remember things in retinal flashes. Without order. Your life doesn't happen in any kind of order…It’s all a series of fragments and repetitions and pattern formations.” The movie similarly withholds chronology, jumping across periods of Lidia’s life without locating them in a linear timeframe.
The film opens with a shot of menstrual blood flowing into a shower drain, followed by abrupt, disjointed images from Lidia’s life. These flashing images only acquire their appropriate context much later. The sound is visceral and can feel invasive. And while the presumed strategy behind this is to drag you straight into Lidia’s world, in moments, it’s raucous to the point of pulling you out.
Those flashing bits of memory place you into her mode of remembering, where certain images, like the corner of her childhood living room, and sounds, like the crack of a belt, intrude the present moment. It’s in this position that one can insert their own fragmented experiences. While many won’t recognize themselves in the precise details of Lidia’s circumstances, there is a universality to her relationship with memory—the way it arrives and interrupts. But as with the sound at times, the harsh editing has a piercing way of yanking you out of the film.
A book, by nature, allows the reader to self-pace. Once you’re seated in a theater, however, you’re committed to enduring whatever the screen throws at you. Stewart throws a lot and trusts you can take it. Her singular vision and fearlessness in executing it is spectacular, even if at risk of being alienating. Stewart made the deliberate choice to stay true to her vision instead of placating a wider audience, and for that reason alone, this film is worth seeing.
Following that introduction of flashing images, the film begins to jump between memories from Lidia’s childhood. In one dismal scene, the family pulls off the road in a Pacific Northwest forest to cut down a Christmas tree. The father takes Lidia’s older sister into the white density of trees, while Lidia and her mother stay in the car. They’re gone long enough to cause uneasiness. When their figures finally reappear in the frosted car window, they have no tree. Claudia opens the door, her face sunken and repulsed. The camera briefly catches the mother in the front seat—face obscured by hair and upholstery—and in a single blink it becomes clear that she understands exactly what has transpired.
The film returns again and again to such memories. Years later, at swim practice, Lidia and her teammates line up in identical orange swimsuits and step onto a scale. For every pound over the limit, the coach gives a “lick,” striking them with a clipboard. We’re never shown the coach’s face, instead the camera stays low, fixed on their torsos. The smack of the wood on flesh punctures your eardrums. When the coach reaches Lidia, he says because she is a freshman, he will “make it count.”
Moments like these, calmly presented, are more disturbing for their implied routine than for their downright repulsiveness. It recalls a line from Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts, in which Nelson reflects on the violent sexual material she encountered in books as a child and then pauses, writing, “I don’t even want to talk about female sexuality until there is a control group. And there never will be” (66). Stewart gives this idea a form, suggesting that violation doesn’t intrude upon girlhood but is one of the foundational, organizing structures of it.
The film moves forward through Lidia’s adult life and relationships. She marries a gentle man she can’t ever accept, believing he’s too good for her. Later, she marries a man who shares her hunger for self-destruction. In between, she suffers a devastating loss. Finally, a friend brings her to a writing class taught by Ken Kesey, played with full bravado by Jim Belushi. She begins writing and doesn’t stop.
This is where the film’s form finally steadies. The previous jolts of memories ease and scenes lengthen. This is the reward you get for sitting through those first quarters, watching Lidia find her stride. After she leaves her second marriage, she visits a professional dominatrix, played with an intense tenderness by Kim Gordon. The sessions allow her to reframe her pain from something unbearable to something she can move through.
The culmination arrives when Lidia is invited to participate in a reading of her work. Waiting backstage, the scene is crosscut with a recurring image of her as a toddler biting her lip—the moment the narration earlier identified as when she “lost her voice.” Up on stage, reading from her short story “The Chronology of Water,” she constructs a voice for that earlier self when none existed. “Memories are stories,” she says at one point. “So you better come up with one you can live with.”
One of the memoir’s greatest strengths is in the way Yuknavitch resists framing herself as a heroic figure. No matter how intricately she chronicles her own trials, tribulations, and victories, she never transforms herself into a classic, beat-the-odds winner. Yuknavitch writes from the position of somebody assured in her own significance not because of her accomplishments but because of her personhood (“My sister and I, we were selfish,” she writes. “We wanted selves.”). She refuses to satisfy the demand that a woman’s achievement is what makes her story worth telling.
The film’s conclusion, on the other hand, fails to capture this and inserts into the text what was intentionally left out of the original—Lidia as Hero. Stewart manages this by offering a cliched conclusion that stresses Lidia’s successes, both personal and professional, reshaping the story into a recognizable arc of triumph. It ultimately indulges the familiar expectation that suffering must be redeemed and that only exceptional women are worthy of narrative attention. The conclusion dilutes what precedes it, softening the book’s most radical claim: that an ordinary, messy life is already enough.