The Ice Storm

Ang Lee’s The Ice Storm is one of those films that lingers in your head for days, partly because it never quite lets you get comfortable. Set in a well-to-do Connecticut suburb in 1973, the movie dips into the tangled lives of two neighboring families during a single very cold Thanksgiving weekend. The setup is deceptively calm: picture-perfect homes, plenty of plaid, but beneath it all you know something’s beginning to crack. Lee doesn’t just set the film during an actual ice storm — he uses it as a metaphor for emotional frigidity, miscommunication, and the slow erosion of intimacy.

The cast is almost comically stacked in retrospect: Kevin Kline, Joan Allen, Sigourney Weaver, Tobey Maguire, Christina Ricci, and Elijah Wood, just to name the core. What stands out is how lived-in all the performances feel. Weaver is a particular highlight as Janey Carver, radiating both a world-weariness and simmering resentment with the quiet confidence that makes her character both unlikable and irresistible. Joan Allen’s turn as Elena is quietly devastating — she’s brittle and beautiful, barely holding it together while keeping up appearances. Every actor seems perfectly dialed into the subdued panic that makes suburban malaise so potent on screen.

One thing that sets The Ice Storm apart from other family dramas is its refusal to judge. These are people who lie, cheat, and ignore their children, but Lee and screenwriter James Schamus don’t punish them or paint heroes and villains. Instead, the film lingers in the awkwardness of their mistakes. There is no big Oscar-bait monologue, no cathartic resolution, just shivers of realness that hurt more because they’re so recognizable. The film’s parties, conversations, and even the sexual encounters are awkward to the point of squirm-inducing, and it feels exactly right for these characters.

The production design is meticulous in a low-key way. No pin-neat Mad Men sheen here — the houses are cluttered, the wood paneling is a little too dark, everything feels oppressively cozy rather than magazine-worthy. Cinematographer Frederick Elmes shoots a lot through frosted glass and perched behind corners which gives the sense you’re listening in on secrets or spying from the hallway like a kid. There are a couple of breathtaking shots of the icy landscape — you can almost feel how numbingly cold it is outside, both literally and between these characters.

Pacing is maybe the only real issue. The middle third can get a little bogged down in glum repetition, which I imagine will grate on some who crave a cleaner dramatic arc. There are a few scenes that feel like the movie is more interested in period detail than pressing the story forward. Still, I think that’s part of Lee’s point — the emotional paralysis traps everyone in their own drifting routines.

The script refuses to spell things out. Instead, it drops you into these small, awkward moments between parents and kids, or husband and wife, and trusts the audience to put things together. For some, it’s going to feel a little chilly in tone — I kept thinking, “Man, is anyone going to actually talk to each other here?” — but there’s power in the longing and missed connections. The best example is Maguire’s Paul, adrift at prep school and even more lost at home, fumbling his way through feelings he can’t express.

The soundtrack hums along quietly in the background, full of appropriately melancholy 1970s cuts but mercifully never shouting the era at you. The film is full of silences and weirdness — a scene in a key party where Allen’s character can barely force herself to make a choice, or Ricci’s Wendy ransacking a neighbor’s medicine cabinet with a strange little curiosity. These aren’t people anyone would aspire to be, but Lee finds compassion for how lonely and confused they all are.

The Ice Storm is probably not for everyone — it’s pretty bleak, and if you’re allergic to family dramas where people mostly suffer in silence, this won’t convert you. Still, it’s a huge achievement in showing both the pain and absurdity of people who don’t know how to reach out. You walk away with this weird ache and maybe a strong urge to call your parents. It’s cold, but it’s honest, and sometimes a truth this chilly feels weirdly comforting.