The Assistant – Film Review

Kitty Green’s The Assistant is not a traditional exposé of abuse or power—it’s something much quieter, more insidious, and ultimately more unnerving. Set over the course of a single workday, the film captures the suffocating monotony and moral erosion within a corporate culture that enables systemic exploitation. Anchored by Julia Garner’s intensely internalized performance, The Assistant avoids sensationalism, opting instead for a restrained and observational approach that magnifies the tension lurking beneath the surface. It’s a film that demands patience but rewards those willing to engage with its unsettling silences and moral ambiguities.

The film follows Jane (Garner), a recent college graduate and aspiring film producer, who works as a junior assistant at a powerful New York film production company. The unnamed boss is never seen on screen but is omnipresent through phone calls, emails, and the way others behave in his orbit. Jane’s day is full of menial tasks: making coffee, ordering lunch, printing schedules, cleaning the couch in her boss’s office, and apologizing on his behalf to his angry wife.

But gradually, the real nature of her workplace emerges. The tone of phone calls, the makeup stains on the couch, the mysterious new young assistant flown in from Idaho with no discernible qualifications—everything points to a predatory culture protected by silence and complicity. Jane witnesses it all, and though her instincts tell her something is wrong, the environment leaves little room for questioning authority.

The soul of The Assistant lies in Julia Garner’s performance. With minimal dialogue and almost no backstory, Garner conveys a quiet emotional progression—from robotic efficiency to stifled moral reckoning. Her face is a battlefield of micro-expressions: hesitation, discomfort, suppressed fear, guilt. It’s not a showy role, but it’s a tremendously difficult one. Garner internalizes the anxiety and powerlessness of a young woman aware that she is part of something corrupt yet paralyzed by the fear of consequence.

The film’s most pivotal scene comes when Jane visits the company’s HR department to report what she suspects is sexual misconduct. She meets with Wilcock (Matthew Macfadyen), a perfectly passive-aggressive embodiment of corporate damage control. Their conversation is a masterclass in psychological manipulation. He belittles her, offers a veneer of sympathy, then turns her complaint into a threat to her own job security. By the end of the meeting, Jane is left demoralized and effectively silenced. It’s devastating to watch, and Macfadyen’s patronizing calmness only heightens the horror.

Green, who also wrote the screenplay, structures the film as a methodical procedural. The details are important—Jane’s email inbox, the overhead fluorescents, the sound of printers whirring, and doors clicking shut. These mundane textures accumulate into a portrait of a system designed to protect power and neutralize dissent. There’s no dramatic confrontation, no cathartic breakdown, no criminal justice intervention. That’s the point.

The Assistant is less interested in individual villains than in collective inertia. Everyone in the office knows—maybe not the details, but certainly the pattern. The male assistants turn a blind eye or laugh it off. The senior executives retreat into bureaucratic platitudes. Even Jane, who seems the only one disturbed, returns to her desk, resumes her tasks, and types an apologetic email she doesn’t believe in.

This is a film about the slow erosion of conscience in a climate where speaking up feels futile. It shows how abuse thrives not just through aggression but through indifference and rationalization. It’s a chilling indictment of the structures that enable harassment while maintaining a façade of professionalism.

Green adopts a clinical, almost documentary-like aesthetic. The camera frequently stays in wide shots, allowing the sterile office environment to dwarf its characters. There are no musical cues to prompt emotion—just the ambient hum of fluorescent lighting and muffled voices through walls. It’s an oppressive soundscape that enhances the film’s feeling of unease.

However, this same minimalism can make The Assistant feel alienating at times. Its deliberate pacing and lack of narrative momentum may test the patience of viewers expecting dramatic fireworks. There’s a sense of emotional detachment that, while thematically appropriate, might leave some feeling cold or unsatisfied. Green’s refusal to offer resolution or clarity can come across as undercooked or overly cryptic, especially for those unfamiliar with the film’s subtextual targets.

Still, the film’s rigor and commitment to its tone are admirable. It’s a gutsy choice to withhold drama in a story centered on dramatic subject matter. By focusing on the ordinary, Green reveals the extraordinary ways power sustains itself—quietly, invisibly, and ruthlessly.

Released in the wake of the #MeToo movement, The Assistant is in direct conversation with Hollywood’s reckoning. But its strength lies in the way it avoids becoming an “issue film.” There are no flashbacks to abuse, no courtrooms, no moralizing voiceovers. Green trusts the audience to pick up on the cues, and that trust elevates the film beyond mere commentary.

Yet, this trust may also be its biggest limitation. The Assistant is a film that requires viewers to read between the lines, to empathize with silence, and to draw conclusions from absence rather than presence. For those willing to engage with its subtlety, it can be deeply affecting. For others, it may feel too opaque or restrained to leave a lasting impact.

The Assistant is a film that operates in whispers rather than shouts. It’s a sobering portrait of the mechanisms that allow abuse to flourish—not through overt violence, but through silence, complicity, and bureaucracy. Julia Garner’s subdued but powerful performance anchors the film, and Kitty Green’s meticulous direction creates an atmosphere of quiet dread that lingers long after the credits roll.

It’s not a film for everyone. Its slow pace, lack of plot escalation, and emotional reserve can be frustrating. But for viewers attuned to its frequency, The Assistant offers a haunting meditation on power, morality, and the human cost of institutional silence. Green doesn’t offer easy answers, but she forces us to look—quietly, uncomfortably, and unflinchingly—at the systems we often accept without question.

A chilling, minimalist study of power and complicity, elevated by Julia Garner’s subtle performance. It’s not flashy or fast-paced, but its quiet devastation cuts deep for those who listen closely.