Matt Winn’s The Trouble with Jessica opens with the kind of dinner party that makes you want to RSVP “no” just in case someone brings a memoir. The film sets its tone early: brittle banter, wine-fueled revelations, and the creeping dread that someone’s going to say something unforgivable—or die. Jessica (Indira Varma), the uninvited guest with literary baggage and emotional volatility, does both. Her sudden suicide in the garden turns a night of passive-aggressive hors d’oeuvres into a full-blown “what do we do with the body” farce. And yes, the clafoutis survives.
As a “dead body dilemma” film, it’s more cocktail napkin than crime scene tape. The Trouble with Jessica doesn’t lean into gore or suspense; it leans into Alan Tudyk’s increasingly sweaty forehead and Shirley Henderson’s mounting panic as Tom and Sarah scramble to preserve their real estate deal. The body isn’t the problem—it’s the timing. Jessica’s death is inconvenient, not tragic, and that’s where the film finds its darkly comic pulse. The corpse is a plot device, not a person, and that’s both the film’s strength and its moral blind spot.
The title plays out with a kind of grim chuckle. Jessica is in trouble before she dies—her memoir has scandalized her friends, her presence is unwelcome, and her emotional volatility is palpable. After she dies, she becomes a logistical nightmare. The trouble with Jessica is that she refuses to be ignored, even in death. The film doesn’t ask us to mourn her; it asks us to watch her friends squirm. It’s a bold choice, and it primarily works, though one wishes the film had given her more interiority before turning her into a garden obstacle.
Tonally, the film is a bit of a trampoline. It bounces between satire, farce, and moments of genuine pathos, though it never lands too hard on any one genre. The jazz score helps smooth the transitions, and the cast is game for the ride. Rufus Sewell and Olivia Williams bring a kind of weary elegance to their roles, while Tudyk and Henderson anchor the chaos with a mix of desperation and denial. Their performances are in tune with the film’s themes: the fragility of appearances, the absurdity of social norms, and the sheer inconvenience of mortality.
Where the film stumbles is in its attempt to inject emotional depth late in the game. A segment titled “The Trouble with Guilt” tries to pivot toward grief, but it feels like a detour rather than a destination. The characters don’t evolve so much as they endure. There’s no reckoning, just a series of increasingly elaborate lies and evasions. It’s funny, but it leaves a faint aftertaste of missed opportunity. Jessica’s death could have been a mirror; instead, it’s a plot twist.
Still, the film succeeds more often than it fails. Its pacing is brisk, its dialogue sharp, and its direction confident. Winn knows how to stage a scene for maximum discomfort and is not afraid to let silence do the heavy lifting. The confined setting works in the film’s favor, turning the house into a pressure cooker of secrets and self-interest. The whole affair is theatrical, but it never feels stagey. The camera moves with purpose, and the editing keeps things taut.
The supporting cast adds texture without distraction. Anne Reid’s nosy neighbor is a delight, and Sylvester Groth’s Klaus brings just the right amount of oily menace. These characters don’t overstay their welcome; their presence adds stakes to the central dilemma. The house must be sold, the body must be hidden, and the guests must be placated. It’s a comedy of manners with a corpse in the shrubbery.
As a thematic exploration, The Trouble with Jessica is more interested in social performance than emotional truth. It skewers the upper-middle class with precision, exposing their hypocrisies and neuroses without resorting to caricature. The film doesn’t preach, but it does prod. It asks what friendship means when reputation is on the line, and whether love can survive the logistics of death. It doesn’t offer answers, but it does offer wine.
Alan Tudyk, in particular, deserves credit for grounding the absurdity. His performance is layered: anxious, vain, and increasingly unhinged. He doesn’t play for laughs, which makes the laughs land harder. Tom is an unraveling man, and his unraveling is the film’s emotional anchor. He’s not likable, but he’s recognizably human, and that’s enough.
The Trouble with Jessica is a hit-and-miss affair, but the hits are frequent and well-aimed. It’s a film that knows its limits and mostly stays within them. It doesn’t reinvent the genre but offers a fresh spin on the dinner party disaster. It’s clever, well-acted, and occasionally profound—don’t expect closure. Or clafoutis.
Grade: B+. Streaming on Amazon Prime.
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