{shortcode-ed0de483f844d91db35f1522e081fc665549d7c7}

In a world in which crime shows like “Law and Order: SVU” and “True Detective” place the emphasis on the detectives solving a case, Netflix’s new film “Lost Girls,” about young women who go missing in Long Island, comes as a surprise. This moody biopic, helmed by Academy Award winning director Liz Garbus, admirably strives to humanize the victims of tragedy and analyze the dynamics of their families following the events.

“Lost Girls” tells the true story of single mother of three, Mari Gilbert (Amy Ryan), who struggled to find her eldest daughter, 24-year-old sex worker Shannan Gilbert, after she went missing in 2010. Shannan was raised in foster care following a diagnosis of bipolar disorder at age 12, a decision her mother made because she could not afford to provide Shannan with the care she needed. Years later, Shannan is still the apple of her mother’s eye and her disappearance prompts Mari to take the investigation into her own hands. Mari’s inquiries help police to uncover a string of other grisly murders of sex workers in their sleepy part of town.

Though the media loves nothing more than a missing young girl, the disappearance of a sex worker never has quite the same effect — or so “Lost Girls” thoughtfully proposes early in its arc. The film criticizes the disparity in police action in cases involving sex workers and those of victims of more conventional professions. Emphasizing this injustice helps anchor the overall plot.

In most criminal narrative adaptations, the victims tend to be sensationalized and their behaviors scrutinized with an almost Freudian insistence. Wild theories are cast out like nets, searching desperately for justifications about the victims’ occupations or private decisions. The question is never “how will the crime be solved,” but rather “what about this woman's history led her to being a victim?”

While “Lost Girls” provides reasons for why Shannan became a sex worker, Garbus is uninterested in diagnosing her relationships or passing judgement. Instead, she brings insight into Shannan’s and the other girls’ lives, giving them personalities through the families they leave behind.

Garbus forgoes placing any blame on the victim's families. It is too easy to say that, had she not been a sex worker, Shannan might not have disappeared the way she did. We could then point to Mari’s decision to place her in foster care as the trigger that set off this chain of events. Yet Garbus presents information in context, showing that Mari’s actions were based on a selfless desire to provide her daughter with more help than she could afford.

Most of the film’s rage comes in the form of Ryan’s formidable acting. At the beginning, Ryan portrays Mari as a shell of a woman, living in the past and perpetually distracted by financial trouble. Early shots depict her splitting her time between working jobs to support her girls and reminiscing over childhood videos of Shannan. Though clearly a devoted mother, Mari’s struggles divert her attention from her other children Sherre (Thomasin McKenzie) and Sarah (Oona Laurence).

After Shannan’s disappearance, Mari turns into a bold fighter, ready to take any course of action to get answers. Courtesy of Ryan’s talent, her character’s transition to justifiable viciousness is seamless. Ryan imbues Mari with a tangible desperation and clawing strength. At the end of the film, real press conference footage of Mari confirms that her obstinance is carefully translated to the screen.

Heavy emotional moments in the film are often buoyed by a talented ensemble of young actors who provide empathetic performances of the victims’ families. In one incredibly touching scene, family members of the missing women go around in a circle and share memories about their lost ones. Sherre speaks proudly about Shannan’s intellectual accomplishments, and the other womens’ encouraging responses seal their growing bond. The heartbreak and sweetness of McKenzie’s performance, as well as those of the other actors, reminds us that this drama is not just about police accountability, but also the emotional consequences at stake.

The film’s cinematography also deserves praise. Igor Martinovic is not afraid to bring even more darkness to a bleak film through his vivid, lingering shots and largely blue-tinged tone. It works perfectly with a lugubrious soundtrack that recycles bars from a cover of Stephen Foster’s “Beautiful Dreamer.” The eerie song becomes a clear motif, a yearning tune to match the film’s somber mood and represent the crushed potential of every missing young woman.

In spite of the film’s relatively short length, the slow development of the plot and the myriad of injustices make “Lost Girls” a slow burn that’s occasionally difficult to watch. Its abrupt ending appears to be purposefully unsatisfactory, perhaps to remind the viewer that this is an unsolved crime. But this adjective does not apply to the rest of the fim. There is something deeply satisfying in having its conclusions come to the spotlight. "Lost Girls" carries a sense of urgency that demands it to be watched.

— Staff writer Aline G. Damas can be reached at aline.damas@thecrimson.com.