Ella McCay
★★ 1/2
There are few filmmakers I root for harder than James L. Brooks. From Terms of Endearment to Broadcast News to As Good as It Gets, Brooks has always had a rare gift: blending sharp comedy with the messiness of real life. He writes people who feel human—neurotic, noble, annoying and occasionally profound. He’s also, casually, one of the reasons The Simpsons exists, so the man’s legacy is beyond secure.
Which is why Ella McCay is such a frustrating experience.
To be clear: this isn’t a disaster. I didn’t hate it. But it is a film that constantly feels like it’s reaching for something meaningful and never quite grabbing hold.
The story follows an idealistic young woman navigating the world of government while juggling family drama and personal expectations. On paper, it sounds exactly like the kind of thing Brooks should excel at. In fact, as my wife Whitney smartly pointed out, this story probably works better as a novel—one where your imagination can fill in emotional gaps and smooth over the seams. On screen, those seams are impossible to ignore.
The biggest issue is the world-building. Ella is the governor of a fictional, unnamed state. Political affiliations are intentionally vague. Everything feels slightly untethered from reality. Instead of creating universality, the film creates distance. The characters resemble people we recognize, but they don’t quite exist as a believable whole. It’s like watching a well-written sketch stretched into a feature-length film.
Emma Mackey, as Ella, struggles to anchor the movie. She has undeniable movie-star presence, but the performance lacks subtlety. It’s hard to tell whether that’s the script, the direction or simply a miscasting, but the emotional beats rarely land. Similarly, Jamie Lee Curtis shows up as the kooky supporting relative, doing exactly what the role asks of her… which mostly involves broad antics that wear thin quickly.
Thankfully, the seasoned pros save the film from becoming a total slog. Albert Brooks is terrific, finding the precise tone this movie needs but rarely achieves. He feels like an actual human being who wandered in from a better version of this story. And Woody Harrelson, despite limited screen time, also injects much-needed credibility and energy. Every scene featuring either of them improves instantly.
There are flashes of classic James L. Brooks here—bits of dialogue that are sharp, observant and quietly funny. But they’re surrounded by exaggerated tics and plot mechanics that flatten their impact. You can feel the generational gap at work: an 85-year-old filmmaker trying to capture the inner life and political struggles of a woman in her 30s. It’s not that the ideals are wrong, it’s that the perspective feels dated.
Visually, the film is pleasant enough—light, airy, never oppressive—and I didn’t regret the time spent watching it. But seeing it in a near-empty theater on what was clearly one of its final days felt symbolic. This is the kind of movie that, today, often skips theaters entirely and lands quietly on a streaming service, made by younger filmmakers with a firmer grasp on the material they’re exploring.
Ella McCay isn’t a failure so much as a misfire. It’s forgivable. It’s occasionally charming. And it won’t tarnish the legacy of a true filmmaking legend. But it does explain, pretty clearly, why it struggled to connect with audiences and why it will likely be remembered as a minor footnote rather than a late-career triumph.
