Twenty years on from his debut feature “London to Brighton,” Paul Andrew Williams remains a tough talent to pigeonhole on the British indie film scene. His filmography veers from kitchen-sink realism to wild genre storytelling, sometimes with a supernatural bent; from the visceral, stomach-churning severity of “Bull” to the untrammelled sentimentality of “Song for Marion.” In his latest film, “Faith,” pretty much all those impulses come to roost at one point or another, which arguably makes this emotional assault course about a young working-class mother’s bereavement the director’s most quintessential work.

It is not, however, his best, despite a performance of bare, shattering desolation by Erin Doherty, fresh from her Emmy win last year for “Adolescence,” and here fully proving her mettle as a big-screen lead. But if her conviction never wavers, the story around her — centering on a healing relationship with a kindly but cryptic stranger, played by James McAvoy — is considerably less stable, toward a (yes) faith-based final act likely to leave audiences sharply divided. Williams’ last feature “Dragonfly” was likewise a tremendous performance showcase (for Andrea Riseborough and Brenda Blethyn) that went violently off the rails toward the close; given the benefits of a Toronto festival launch and McAvoy’s marquee value, “Faith” should enjoy a higher profile.

Though it ends in a place that the British master of social realism wouldn’t dream of, “Faith” begins very much in Loachian mode, introducing thirtysomething single mother Gina (Doherty) at the confectionery factory where she works in an anonymous Yorkshire town. Simona Şuşnea’s camera appears mesmerized by the pastel dollops of marshmallow traveling along the production line as they’re sliced and shaped in various dainty ways — their bright softness far removed from the lives we’re about to explore.

That said, Gina’s life is hard but not unhappy, thanks in large part to her nine-year-old son Jamie (the very appealing Smylie Bradwell, briefly seen in last year’s “Hamnet”), an ebullient and sweet-natured kid who returns her absolute devotion. Outside of work, her days largely revolve around Jamie and her sister/bestie Poppy (Liv Hill), a fellow mom and a frequent visitor to her modest home on a low-income housing estate; dating is not on the agenda, but occasionally she lets loose with an evening at the local pub. On one such occasion, she meets friendly Glaswegian Michael (McAvoy), there despite being a teetotaller and having no accompanying friends. That’s the first sign of something odd about him; the second, as he benignly chats Gina up, is that he finds out a lot about her whilst revealing nothing of himself.

The third, Gina is not party to. After he walks her home, gallantly refusing her tipsy offer to come inside, he makes a brief, pointed remark to the departing babysitter that implies one of two things: Either he has some manner of second sight, or he’s simply a psychopath. Either way, we’re on the alert as Gina begins chastely seeing Michael; their next rendezvous may be a food bank where he volunteers, but surely he’s too good to be entirely true. McAvoy, lightly grizzled, plays him with an unsettling, constantly observant demeanor, and there’s a degree of otherworldly remove even to his most kindly gestures. And there are plenty of those to come when Jamie, in a parent’s-worst-nightmare mishap, dies the night before his tenth birthday.

Doherty’s primal, howling articulation of a mother’s anguish in this circumstance is so raw-nerved as to be hard to watch. Her voice wrecked, her body sapped and slack, her eyes practically drained of color and light, she trudges through former routines with the torpor of the undead; the actress shows how small gestures of everyday social exchange have to be relearned, every polite word and tight smile an almighty effort. It’s such a harrowing grief portrait, it’s not entirely surprising that “Faith” seems a bit stymied in its wake, though the hard-left swerve that Williams’ script takes into twisty theological territory — a divine genre intervention, so to speak — doesn’t feel like the solution.

“Faith’s” earnest appropriation of blunt Christian symbolism makes it something of a radical proposition in the U.K., generally a pretty secular cultural landscape. The film may even be a more polarizing conversation piece on home turf than Stateside, though given the otherwise wholly arthouse prospects for a solemn slab of British miserablism, it may struggle to reach the American audience that would be most unquestioningly moved by it. Regardless, Williams’ latest continues to prove him one of the most brazen risk-takers in his corner of the industry. “Faith” demands of its audience a massive leap of, well, you know, but it will eventually find its followers.

There has been a conscious effort to point out that animation is a medium, not a genre, and that it has capabilities beyond directly appealing to children.

There’s more than enough examples that prove that to be true, but animated films can often express the emotions of children in a visual, enticing way that links directly to the way their developing minds work; that’s something that their live-action counterparts aren’t capable of. Julián is at its best when it leans into its expressive qualities, but that’s unfortunately a small portion of a film that chooses to tell when it could show. Although its intimate story would seemingly give it focus, Julián’s emotional beats are so heavily foreshadowed that reaching them becomes surprisingly exhausting for an 85-minute film.

Loosely based on the 2014 children’s book Julián Is a Mermaid by Jessica Love, Julián is the story of the titular 7-year-old boy (Knyght Darius Jack) who spends a weekend in Brooklyn with his grandmother, Carmela (Milcania Diaz-Rojas), whom he is meeting for the first time.

Julián’s father has been concerned that he might be too “different” for his grandmother to handle, and their relationship starts off rocky; between making a mess, trying to skip dinner, and snatching family heirlooms, Julián proves to be a handful for his grandmother.

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Their relationship deepens when Julián’s love of drawing leads him to the stories of mystical creatures, including mermaids that are being celebrated in a town parade. Julián’s desire to be a mermaid for the festivities leads him to new friends and self-discovery, but it also calls upon his grandmother to find the best way to prepare him for the world.

That the film is so singularly focused on a single event, which would loom large in the mind of a child, is a smart way to show how wide-spanning the events of a single weekend could feel to a young boy being placed in a new environment for the first time. The problem is that the structure of Julián becomes derivative to the point of irritation.

Julián himself is just as oblivious as a seven-year-old could be, and tends to cause damage, miscommunication, or awkward moments whenever he blunders into a situation without fear of judgment. Getting irritated with the character is pointless, given that it was the intention of the film to accurately reflect this age range, but that doesn’t mean it’s compelling material for a story. One can look no further than the films of Miyazaki to see what mature, yet impressionistic portrayals of early childhood look like.

Julián is at the obnoxious age where he reacts strongly to everything, overblowing minor setbacks, which gives the film a harder time dealing with more serious issues. When his reactions to legitimate bullying mirror being told to behave and clean up after himself, it strikes a banal tone, especially when their humour doesn’t register for anyone older than seven.

The lack of self-awareness on the character’s part is limiting as well, as the film’s imagination is limited to Julián’s perception. Since it’s being told from his point of view, Carmela can’t be entirely descriptive or thoughtful in describing her past, because she is trying to condense nuanced memories in a way that Julián can understand.

To say that the plot beats in Julián are similar to those that might appear in an episode of a children’s television show isn’t an insult, as those programs have an important role in teaching life lessons in a way that is engaging to young viewers. The issue is that Julián isn’t a 22-minute episode of Arthur or Curious George, and thus, the narrative restrictions have limitations.

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That Julián’s young group of new friends are nothing more than caricatures is more distracting when they take up significant screen time, and there’s a decidedly manipulative choice in the final act in which Carmela uses language seemingly taken straight out of a therapy manual. It not only feels condescending, but strikes as inconsistent when compared to how welcoming she had seemed initially.

There is a sincere celebration for the Afro-Caribbean culture in Brooklyn, and the times in which Julián feels like a love letter to his grandparents are quite charming. Yet, so much of the film’s creative artwork is undermined by a script that spells out everything in a way that doesn’t seem well-suited for kids looking to have fun or adults wanting something more. Kids can feel represented without having characters who are framed as being just like them, and it’s too often that Julián mistakes sincerity for profundity.

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Tessa Ensler, a rising-star criminal defense barrister in London, specializes in defending men accused of sexual assault. In “Prima Facie,” Cynthia Erivo plays her as a hard-working perfectionist for whom it ultimately doesn’t matter whether her client is guilty or innocent: It’s all part of “a game with rules, a game of law.” That is, until she becomes a victim herself and begins to question her belief in the fairness of the British legal system that has elevated her far beyond her working-class origins as the daughter of a single mother who cleans for a living.

Adapted from the play of the same name by playwright-turned-screenwriter Suzie Miller, a former human-rights and criminal-justice lawyer, the film embraces its role as a teaching tool. Sexual violence is staggeringly common, with nearly one in three women globally experiencing physical and/or sexual violence in their lifetime, while the vast majority of reported rapes never result in prosecution.

The urgency of the subject matter is not in question. But instead of creating space for the viewer to wrestle with Tessa’s experience, “Prima Facie” employs constant voiceover to overexplain it, leaving the audience almost nothing to discover. By retaining too much of the play’s rhetorical architecture, the film turns a provocative dramatic premise into something closer to an illustrated thesis.

Tonally confused, the film starts like a “The Devil Wears Prada”-style workplace dramedy, then shifts into psychological thriller and finally courtroom drama. Director Susanna White has said the tonal dislocation was intentional, but combined with dizzying shot compositions that never quite cohere into an effective visual language — most notably the superfluous interstitials of horses — the film irritates more than it moves hearts and minds.

Erivo and Daniel Ings, who plays her colleague Julian Brooks, both turn in serviceable performances, as does an ensemble cast that includes Noma Dumezweni as Tessa’s mother, June, and Toheeb Jimoh as her younger brother, Johnny. But the overstuffed script leaves little room for the performances to soar.

In the film adaptation of “She Said,” which chronicles the rigorous New York Times investigation of Harvey Weinstein that helped propel the #MeToo movement into worldwide prominence, there’s a scene I’ve thought about often since first seeing the film in 2022. Samantha Morton plays former Miramax assistant Zelda Perkins, who sits in a café with reporter Jodi Kantor and recounts Weinstein’s behavior, the alleged sexual assault of her colleague Rowena Chiu, and the punishing nondisclosure agreement that followed. Morton’s performance is raw yet matter-of-fact, the emotion of something long buried pushing its way back to the surface.

There is something about that scene that nails the nuance of being gutted by the crimes of powerful, entitled men. There is no visual reenactment of the alleged assault. Yet watching a seasoned woman open the vault of her past again, hoping this time the telling might make a difference, lands with force.

Does anyone benefit from watching a woman get raped? Or, more precisely, who exactly benefits from seeing the fictional depiction of a rape? Curiously, “Prima Facie” doesn’t appear to have thought through these pivotal questions in a story about survival in the wake of sexual assault and thus lacks the requisite answers it would need to have a real emotional effect on the viewer.

I watched a rape scene, and I felt nothing. Beyond being a blow to the psyche, I felt the disquiet of knowing what I was supposed to feel but not of knowing what the movie wanted me to believe about what happened. It’s emblematic of a film that has its moments — Erivo’s searing courtroom monologue stands out — but doesn’t ultimately stand up to the weight of what it depicts.

In the rape scene, the live action is intercut with flashes of staged broken glass against black and the words in Tessa’s own head. I could see the perpetrator more easily than I could the victim. The film mostly stays on Tessa’s face, which lets some of her humanity come through in the midst of the act. But the care required to render melanated skin with dimension onscreen was painfully absent, leaving the viewer quite literally grasping in the dark.

“Prima Facie” started as a successful play, then became a novel, and is now a film that, speaking of melanin, casts Erivo, a Black woman, as Tessa Ensler. The movie explicitly positions this adaptation as expanding the source material’s examination of gender and class to include race. The film shows how class shapes Tessa, for example, in how she makes a point of thanking the cleaner at her law firm, whom her colleagues treat like a walking trash receptacle. We see Tessa’s family: her proud mother June, played by Dumezweni; her rough-around-the-edges but hardworking younger brother Johnny, played by Jimoh; and his partner, who is pregnant with their first child. But even with each actor doing their job, the family dynamic feels forced, lacking the lived-in familiarity that perhaps a few more rehearsals might have cured. More significantly, throughout the movie, we never actually experience Tessa or anyone in her family acknowledging Blackness, theirs or anyone else’s. The film instead passively constructs Tessa’s world as a colorblind one, in which racial difference simply never comes up. It even borders on stereotype in the way that it reaches for the low-hanging fruit of portraying Johnny as prone to violence and bad behavior.

Ultimately, “Prima Facie” is a film about the failures of a system that demands women prove their experiences. Unfortunately, it seems unable to trust either its protagonist or its audience without supplying proof, explanation, and justification at every turn.

Grace: C-

“Prima Facie” premiered at the 2026 Toronto International Film Festival. It is currently seeking U.S. distribution.