Grief and Memory in Joanna Hogg’s Souvenir Trilogy

In the latter stages of The Eternal Daughter, when the soft rays of sunlight shine through a curtain and cast a figure's shadow against ageing wallpaper, it could just as much be a ghostly apparition as a real person's silhouette. This intense, ethereal visual language and the utilisation of environments are constants throughout Joanna Hogg's interlinked films, The Souvenir, The Souvenir Part II, and The Eternal Daughter. In every way, these aspects aid Hogg in portraying loss; it isn't just people and feelings that differ, but the forms and stages of grief too. Her unofficial trilogy is undeniably powerful in its meta reflexivity, yet it is the films' ambiguous, undulating, but ultimately cohesive core of loss and memory that drives them forward.

In the space of four years, Hogg has given us a tremendous insight into her own life as an adult, from her younger formative years at film school into her experiences as a middle-aged woman. In 2019 with The Souvenir, she portrayed the relationship she had as a young adult with an older man, then followed the fallout from his death by a heroin overdose in The Souvenir Part II (2021). At the backend of 2023 in the UK, we finally have The Eternal Daughter, drastically different in many ways to these first two entries—mainly in setting, story, and tone—but also remarkably and inextricably linked to them both.

In The Souvenir and The Souvenir Part II, the personality, influence and death of Anthony (Tom Burke) largely inform Julie's (Honor Swinton Byrne as a spectacular conduit for Hogg) world, as well as the films' composition and form. In The Eternal Daughter, the loss of Julie's mother Rosalind (both characters here are played by Tilda Swinton) influences the gothic world we see on screen. Whilst incredibly assured in her directorial voice, Hogg never dictates to viewers how to deal with toxic relationships or losing a loved one; she shows how she dealt with such instances, giving us a startlingly personal perspective that still bears relatability and universality for many viewers.

Whilst The Eternal Daughter is more overt in its portrayal of grief, The Souvenir is more abstract due to its splintered structure and fragmented form. Julie is consistently cut off by the camera, her face only half in view, showing how memories stay with us but also grow or diminish in our minds. Similarly, frequent shots either from Julie's own POV or of Swinton Byrne's character gazing at a cracked mirror—her face and body split—reflect Hogg's autobiographical portrayal of memories. The latter is more specifically reflective of Julie's own struggling mindset; as her relationship with Anthony becomes more toxic, Hogg keenly frames her in increasingly stressful ways, amplifying the poisonous journey she is unable to escape from.

The visual language of The Souvenir informs this anxious relationship, rather than any form of grief, but when Anthony passes away at its conclusion, the tone of The Souvenir becomes suffocating in its silence. As horrible and manipulative as Anthony was, Julie still loved him, however wrong that might be. The Souvenir finishes abruptly after his death, with The Souvenir Part II picking up directly after the event as Julie still reels from his passing. The Souvenir is presented as hazily as memories from 30-odd years ago can only be; in contrast, the assuredness and emotion of Part II, whilst taking place in the same era as its predecessor, reflects Hogg's own journey of self-discovery.

This journey is reflected in Julie's decision to make a film about her relationship with Anthony—a further meta level to this trilogy. Here, Hogg follows more conventional routes of filmmaking, with a clearer narrative and goal showing how focussing on something—in this case, making a film—can provide some closure to a person experiencing grief. Julie is consistently framed in film-related spaces, such as a set build in a large warehouse, or next to filming equipment, firmly showing the creative outlet she is slowly discovering. Yet despite the narrative clarity, Julie's journey is far from easy; the warehouse is expansive, and Julie is often shown alone within its vastness. It situates her within the filmmaking process, but also shows how lost and alone she is in her depression.

The Souvenir Part II is arguably firmer in execution than The Souvenir, which unintentionally shows how both Hogg and Julie's self-discovery and identity became shaped in these formative film school years. Where anxiety and emotional torment influence the visual language of The Souvenir, grief and discovery flood the screen in The Souvenir Part II. Alongside Julie in both of these films is her mother Rosalind. The Eternal Daughter moves decades later than these first two films, grounding itself more in the present day.

Despite this more modern setting, The Eternal Daughter maintains the mysticism that also exists in The Souvenir. Julie is now a middle-aged woman, and she takes a trip with her elderly mother Rosalind to a seemingly empty hotel. The Eternal Daughter is an unconventional ghost story—Julie sees unclear faces at windows and the fog-shrouded manor hotel is ripe with gothicism—and is therefore more concrete in its depiction of grief than both The Souvenir and The Souvenir Part II.

The aforementioned shadow on the wallpaper is, in fact, Julie, but the way Hogg frames the flickering silhouette indicates that, in another world, it could just as well be Rosalind. The hotel was a former family home for Julie's mother, and its rich setting holds deeply embedded memories for her. Nostalgia swirls through its eerie hallways, and as we eventually discover Rosalind is no longer alive and Julie is in fact alone, the crushing, inescapable weight of grief feels as shocking as it ever has in this trilogy. Rosalind fades into this ageing hotel environment along with every other memory.

In The Eternal Daughter, Hogg shows her skill in visual symbolism at full force. The hotel becomes an arena for her characters' own experiences: fading faces and constant fog reflect the murkiness of memory; human connection cut by loss amplifies the suddenness of death. Throughout this special trilogy and via films that are both rightfully ambiguous and strikingly efficient, Hogg artfully shows how such memories—those of grief, happiness, or others—morph and remain present over time, perhaps losing some accuracy but never wilting in emotional or dramatic weight.