‘Perfect’ Review – Shallow Queer Chemistry And A Half-Baked Story [SXSW 2026]

There’s something strangely adrift about Perfect. Watching it feels a bit like wandering into a town where the pieces of a story exist, but no one has quite figured out how they fit together. The film follows Kai, played by Ashley Moore, who arrives in the small desert town of Breakwater after a breakup sends her spiraling into an impulsive road trip. She’s clearly trying to escape something—maybe heartbreak, maybe herself—but the film never quite settles on what that emotional center actually is.

Breakwater exists in the middle of a severe drought, a world where clean water has become scarce and precious. In theory, this should give the story an edge of tension. Scarcity has a way of sharpening human relationships, forcing people into difficult choices. But oddly enough, the drought never quite becomes the looming presence it seems designed to be. People talk about it, sure, but the town itself doesn’t feel particularly desperate. Characters swim in the lake, shower without much concern, and carry on as if the crisis exists more as an idea than a lived reality.

Soon after arriving, Kai meets Mallory, an eccentric, pregnant artist played by Julia Fox. Mallory is effortlessly magnetic, the kind of person who draws attention without trying. Their encounter starts simply: Mallory buys Kai a bottle of water—but in a town where clean water is scarce, the gesture feels loaded with meaning. As they spend time together by the lake, sharing quiet moments and lingering looks, their relationship quickly turns sexual. The film leans on these encounters as evidence of chemistry, yet the intimacy feels surface-level, with sex serving more as a shortcut for connection than as a window into genuine emotional depth.

The film clearly wants their relationship to feel magnetic, as if these two strangers instantly recognize something broken in each other. But the emotional foundation of their bond feels surprisingly thin. They’re drawn together, yes, but the reasons remain vague. Their connection seems built more on proximity and shared isolation than anything deeper. Instead of chemistry that grows organically, their relationship often feels like something the story insists upon rather than something we truly witness.

Kai herself is written as a drifter in the most literal sense. She floats through Breakwater with a quiet passivity, reacting to things as they happen rather than actively shaping her own path. It’s a difficult role to anchor a film around, and Moore does what she can with it, but the character never quite becomes as intriguing or complex as she needs to be. A protagonist like Kai usually works best when there’s a sense of mystery simmering beneath the surface—something that makes you lean forward, wanting to understand what drives her. Here, that mystery never really materializes.

Mallory, on the other hand, is a more volatile presence. Fox brings a certain unpredictability to the character, the kind that keeps you wondering whether Mallory is sincere or quietly manipulating the people around her. That ambiguity could have made their relationship fascinating, especially as it begins to unravel later in the film. Instead, it often feels like the movie gestures toward emotional chaos without fully exploring it.

One character who briefly brings some life into the story is Sunny, a local shop owner played by Lio Mehiel. Sunny exists slightly on the outskirts of Kai and Mallory’s orbit, but the moments we spend with them—and with their small circle of friends—offer glimpses of a far more interesting film. There’s a sense of community there, a found family quietly forming among queer young people living on the margins of society. Unfortunately, those scenes are fleeting, like little sparks that disappear before they can ignite into something meaningful.

Visually, the film has its moments. Cinematographer Ksusha Genenfeld captures the dusty quiet of the desert with an eye for atmosphere, and the soundtrack occasionally injects bursts of energy that the narrative itself struggles to maintain. But even here, the world never fully convinces us. A drought-stricken dystopia should feel harsh and suffocating, yet Breakwater often looks like any other sun-bleached town.

The title Perfect comes from a moment when Mallory confesses that she wants a baby who is, in her words, perfect. It’s clearly meant to gesture toward larger ideas about expectation, control, and the impossible standards we place on ourselves and others. But like many of the film’s themes, the concept never fully develops. The word hangs there, heavy with meaning the story never quite earns.

In the end, Perfect feels less like a fully formed statement and more like a collection of intriguing ideas that never quite find their shape. There are glimpses of something thoughtful beneath the surface—a portrait of loneliness, perhaps, or a story about flawed people searching for connection in a fragile world. But those glimpses remain just that: possibilities that the film circles around without ever truly embracing. Even the sexual intimacy, which could have added real stakes and emotional texture, is ultimately another superficial layer on top of a story that never quite gels.

Perfect held its World Premiere as part of the Visions section of the 2026 SXSW TV & Film Festival. 

Director: Millicent Hailes

Screenwriters: Millicent Hailes, Kendra Miller

Rated: NR

Runtime: 94m