Sadness has no age. Neither does loneliness.
For decades, cinema has returned to the same quiet myth: that women who cross into their middle years are defined by loneliness, bitterness, and the ache of a life already spent. In the first days of 2022, two acclaimed Netflix films — one a literary adaptation, one a German Oscar contender — arrived bearing this familiar story, even as they offered the rare gift of leads over forty-five. A columnist who inhabits that very demographic pushes back, not with anger but with the simple testimony of her own life and the lives of women around her: the myth was always thin, and in 2022, it has no ground left to stand on.
- Two celebrated films land on Netflix in the same week, each centering a middle-aged woman — and each quietly insisting that her defining condition is solitude and regret.
- In 'The Lost Daughter,' a forty-eight-year-old woman is met with disbelief at her own age, as though simply existing on a beach at that number were somehow improbable — a detail the film treats as poignant rather than troubling.
- A columnist who is herself middle-aged names the wound precisely: telling a woman she doesn't look her age is not a compliment, but a signal that her age is something to be ashamed of.
- The argument sharpens — loneliness, bitterness, and unhappiness belong to no single age or gender; cinema has simply decided, without evidence, that they are the natural weather of a woman's forties and fifties.
- The call is clear: filmmakers who are finally willing to put older women on screen must go one step further and refuse the tired script that has always been waiting for them.
There is a story cinema keeps telling about women in their middle years — that they are lonely, haunted by better days, sometimes bitter about all they have lost. It has shaped how society imagines women in their forties and fifties for decades. It is also, largely, not true.
In the quiet week between Christmas and New Year's, two acclaimed films appeared on Netflix, each led by a woman over forty-five. The rarity of that alone deserves acknowledgment. But both films, for all their quality, lean into the very stereotype they might have dismantled. The columnist raising this critique is herself in that demographic, and she is unambiguous: her peers are full of plans, full of ambition, full of life.
The first film, 'The Lost Daughter' — adapted from Elena Ferrante and directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal — follows a forty-eight-year-old woman on a solitary Greek vacation, where her past catches up with her. Olivia Colman's performance is formidable, and the film is a serious awards contender. Yet it stumbles in how it treats her age. When she tells people how old she is, they react with disbelief. The film frames forty-eight as something almost incompatible with a woman traveling alone, with a woman simply being present in the world. Here the columnist offers a pointed observation: do not tell a woman she doesn't look her age. It is not a kindness. It implies her age is something unfortunate, something to be concealed.
The second film, the German comedy 'The Ideal Man' — selected as Germany's Oscar entry — follows a lonely, work-consumed scientist who must research a cyborg built to be her perfect companion. Once again, a middle-aged woman's isolation becomes the central tragedy, as though loneliness were something that arrives on schedule with the forties.
The argument the columnist makes is careful. Lonely middle-aged women exist — as do lonely women of every age, bitter women of every age, unhappy women of every age. Suffering is not the property of a demographic. The problem is that cinema has decided these emotions are what *define* women at this stage of life, that regret and solitude are their natural condition. That is the myth that needs to break — and the women living these years know it better than any screenplay.
There is a story that cinema keeps telling about women in their middle years. They are lonely, these women. They live haunted by better days that have already passed, by moments of intensity that will never come again. Sometimes they are bitter about it all. This narrative has occupied film and television for decades, shaping how society sees women who have crossed into their forties and fifties. It is a story that is not true.
Yet it persists. In the week between Christmas and New Year's, two acclaimed films arrived on Netflix with female leads over forty-five years old. This alone is noteworthy—representation matters, and such films are rare. But both films, despite their quality and critical success, lean heavily into the very stereotype they might have challenged. The columnist who writes about this is herself in that demographic, and she is here to say: this is not how it is. Her friends in the same age bracket are full of plans, full of life. The myth that sustained these narratives may have been absurd decades ago. In 2022, it has no reason to exist at all.
The first film is "The Lost Daughter," adapted from Elena Ferrante's novel and directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal. It is well-regarded by critics and audiences alike, and Olivia Colman's performance is substantial. The story follows a woman of forty-eight who takes a solitary vacation to a Greek beach, where she encounters people from the island and is forced to reckon with ghosts from her past. The film is considered a serious contender for major awards. But there is something uncomfortable in how the film treats her age—how it treats the very fact of her existing at forty-eight in the world.
When she tells people on the island how old she is, they react with shock. "I don't believe it, you look forty at most." "You can't possibly be forty-eight." This exchange happens more than once. The film treats her age as something strange, almost impossible—a number that seems incompatible with a woman traveling alone, with a woman being on a beach, with a woman simply living. And here the columnist offers a piece of advice: do not tell a woman she does not look her age. This is not a compliment. It suggests that her age itself is something unfortunate, something to be ashamed of or to hide from.
The character in the film is unhappy and isolated, yes—but not only because of her years. Her unhappiness stems from personal dramas, from her own history. Yet the film, like so much of the culture around it, insists on connecting her solitude to her age, on suggesting that this is what happens to women when they reach this point in life. The narrative keeps returning to the idea that middle-aged women are lonely, bitter, suffering through menopause, caught in some crisis of meaning. This is not the reality. Sadness has no age. Neither does loneliness. Neither does bitterness.
The second film, "The Ideal Man," is a German comedy selected to represent Germany at the 2022 Oscars. In it, a lonely, work-obsessed scientist must conduct research with a cyborg designed to be the perfect man for her. She confronts her own isolation and her unmet needs. Again, the film uses a middle-aged woman's solitude as its central tragedy, as if loneliness were something that arrives with age, something specific to women in their forties and fifties.
But this is where the argument must be precise. There are, of course, lonely middle-aged women. There are lonely women of every age. There are bitter women of every age. There are unhappy women of every age. Suffering is not the property of any single demographic. As the band R.E.M. once sang—and anyone middle-aged knows the song—"everybody hurts." The point is not that these emotions do not exist. The point is that cinema, and the culture it reflects, has decided that these emotions are what define women at this stage of life, that loneliness and regret are the natural condition of being a woman over forty-five. This is the myth that needs to break. The women living it know better.
Notable Quotes
Do not tell a woman she does not look her age. This is not a compliment. It suggests that her age itself is something unfortunate.— The columnist
My friends in the same age bracket are full of plans, full of life. The myth that sustained these narratives may have been absurd decades ago. In 2022, it has no reason to exist at all.— The columnist
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why does it matter what these two films say about middle-aged women? Aren't they just stories?
Stories shape how we see ourselves and how others see us. When every film about a woman over forty-five treats her age as a tragedy, that becomes the cultural script. Women internalize it. Employers see it. Families see it.
But the films are well-made, critically acclaimed. Doesn't that count for something?
Quality and harm aren't mutually exclusive. A beautifully made film can still reinforce a lie. That's actually more dangerous—it makes the lie feel true.
The columnist says she's middle-aged herself. Does that change how we should read her critique?
It means she's not theorizing from outside. She's living the gap between what the films say about her and what her actual life is. That's not bias—that's evidence.
So what would a better film look like?
One that doesn't treat age as the problem to be solved. A woman of forty-eight can be lonely for reasons that have nothing to do with being forty-eight. Or she can be thriving. The age is just a fact, not a destiny.
Is the columnist saying these films shouldn't exist?
No. She's saying they should stop using age as shorthand for tragedy. Show us the actual person, not the stereotype wearing her face.