In conclusion, I Used to Be Funny is a devastatingly accurate portrayal of what happens when the performance of happiness becomes impossible. By weaving together the language of stand-up, the genre of the missing-person thriller, and the slow cinema of depression, Ally Pankiw has crafted a uniquely empathetic work. The film argues that trauma is not a backstory but an ongoing presence; it is the heckler in the back of the mind that never stops shouting. The true heroism of Sam is not that she reports her assault or saves Brooke, but that she chooses to exist in the “after” at all. In a culture that pressures women to be resilient, funny, and agreeable, I Used to Be Funny makes a radical case for being allowed to be angry, silent, and broken—and for that brokenness to be the very beginning of a new, unglamorous, but authentic life. The funniest people are often the saddest, the film reminds us, but the saddest people deserve the space to stop performing and simply survive.
Ally Pankiw’s debut feature, I Used to Be Funny , is a film that resists easy categorization. On its surface, it is a dramedy about a struggling stand-up comedian named Sam (a revelatory Rachel Sennott) trying to reconnect with a missing teenage girl, Brooke (Olga Petsa). Yet the film’s fractured narrative—oscillating between sun-drenched “before” sequences and a grey, agoraphobic “after”—functions as a formal echo of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). More than a simple mystery or a recovery story, I Used to Be Funny is a profound meditation on the insidious nature of gendered violence, the paradox of the “cool girl” persona, and the arduous, non-linear journey from being a victim to becoming a survivor. Pankiw argues that the punchline of trauma is not the event itself, but the way it forces a woman to become a stranger to her own identity. I Used to Be Funny
Visually and aurally, Pankiw constructs a language of dissonance that mirrors Sam’s internal state. The “before” scenes are drenched in warm, nostalgic 16mm grain and a lo-fi indie soundtrack, evoking a dream of early adulthood that is already tinged with melancholy. The “after” scenes are digital, cold, and claustrophobic, often shot in static mid-shots that trap Sam in her own apartment. This is not a film about closure; it is a film about oscillation. Sam does not triumphantly return to the stage to a standing ovation. Instead, the final sequence shows her tentatively writing a single joke, then deleting it, then writing it again. The film concludes not with a punchline, but with a breath. It rejects the redemptive arc that demands a survivor return to their “old self.” Sam will never be the person she “used to be.” But the final, quiet suggestion is that the new person—sober, scarred, and serious—might be more interesting than the comedian ever was. In conclusion, I Used to Be Funny is