On the surface, they’re frothy and absurd: wealthy women in fabulous wardrobes, meticulously designed mansions, murder mysteries, and eccentric philanthropists. But look closer, and they’re each telling a deeper story about trauma, birth order, and the bonds that form between sisters who survive dysfunctional families in very different ways.

Chaos Enters the Penthouse
In The Better Sister, Nicky Macintosh (Elizabeth Banks) makes a dramatic reentry into her younger sister Chloe’s life by showing up, un-welcomed, to her pristine Manhattan penthouse. A murder investigation is already underway—Chloe’s husband, who also happens to be Nicky’s ex-husband, has just been found dead. Chloe Taylor (Jessica Biel) is an influential media figure with a picture-perfect life and an image she’s desperate to maintain. Nicky, by contrast, is messy, contrarian, and undeniably inconvenient.

Meanwhile, in Sirens, Devon DeWitt (Meghann Fahy) is released from a night in jail and returns to care for her ailing father. She discovers that her younger sister, Simone (Milly Alcock), has sent an elaborate edible arrangement which is much more performative than helpful. Furious, Devon grabs the display in her car and sets out to confront her sister. She finds Simone at the legendary “Cliff House” working for Michaela “Kiki” Kell (Julianne Moore), a hyper-stylized billionaire philanthropist. Simone has abandoned her upstate New York identity for headbands, cheekiness, and florals. Her tattoos have been removed and Devon finds her almost unrecognizable.

Devon and Nicky are cut from the same chaotic cloth. Both speak in cringey, grammatically obtuse sentences, wear the wrong clothes, and offend nearly everyone they encounter. Law enforcement doesn’t know what to make of them, and their younger sisters—Simone and Chloe—vacillate between embarrassment, protectiveness, and avoidance. They’ve both tried to leave the past behind. But the past, in the form of their big sister, has other plans in store for them.

As a therapist, I often see how unresolved trauma shows up in family relationships. What’s psychologically compelling about Sirens and The Better Sister is how they depict strikingly similar responses to childhood trauma. Both shows invert the familiar sibling stereotype. In many families, the older child plays the achiever, the responsible one, while the younger rebels. But in homes shaped by trauma, especially when the mother is absent or compromised, it’s often the eldest daughter who bears the brunt of the father’s rage. She becomes the shield. And that role comes with consequences—depression, addiction, a deep sense of unworthiness.

In both of these current popular shows, the older sister copes through acting out, numbing, and self-destruction. The younger sister copes by striving, perfecting, and escaping.
Both sets of sisters come from profoundly abusive or neglectful households. The fathers are violent, controlling, or cruel; the mothers are absent, weak, or complicit. In both stories, the older sister—despite her flaws—tried to protect the younger one. But as adults, both younger sisters survive through secrecy, deception and feigned perfection.

Camp with a Core
Sirens and The Better Sister are not high art. They’re over-the-top, glossy, and often ridiculous—streaming’s version of a beach read. But that doesn’t mean they’re devoid of meaning. When the sisters in both shows are forced to confront one another, old wounds resurface. They lash out, shut down, try to run. But in fleeting, tender moments, the emotional core glimmers through: a look, a shared memory, a flash of loyalty or sorrow.

In families marked by danger, siblings often become the only witnesses to the full story. They remember what others can never fully understand. Their bond may be fraught or fractured, but it’s also forged in shared survival. One may long to forget; the other may be paralyzed by what she remembers. That tension, and the love that sometimes endures beneath it, is where these shows find their emotional resonance.

I can’t recommend Sirens or The Better Sister for their realism, narrative logic, or emotional nuance. But I can say this: the messy connection between sisters shaped by trauma is something these shows surprisingly get right. The glitz may be superficial—but the emotional truth, in moments, rings loud and clear.

The results are in: Mikey Madison has officially taken home the Oscar for Best Actress, capping off an incredible awards season where she also won the Independent Spirit Award and the BAFTA. In a historic night, Anora dominated the Academy Awards, proving that its raw intensity and indie roots were no barrier to Hollywood’s top prize. Anora is the film with the lowest budget ever to win best picture.

Directed by Sean Baker, Anora is a striking commentary on wealth, power, and sex work—a clear reminder that, despite progress, it is still a man’s world. Baker, known for his 2015 iPhone-shot indie hit Tangerine, once again spotlights the lives of sex workers with unflinching realism and respect. His protagonist, Anora, or Ani as she prefers, is a New York City-based stripper and escort. Her grandmother never learned English, so she speaks a bit of Russian. When Ivan, the reckless, entitled son of a Russian oligarch, requests a dancer who speaks his language, Ani is the obvious match. Their chemistry is immediate, but their connection—like so many modern relationships—is built on performance and illusion.

Ani presents herself as confident and agreeable, masking the harsh realities of her profession with a well-practiced charm. Ivan, meanwhile, embodies unchecked privilege, approaching his surroundings—both in terms of people and places—as a limitless playground. Their relationship escalates when Ivan offers Ani $15,000 to be his girlfriend for a week—a transaction she negotiates matter-of-factly. As their dynamic deepens, the film peels back their façades. Ani is not just a seductress; she is a vulnerable young woman in pain. Ivan is not just a playboy; he is an impotent child lost in excess. Together, they expose the thin line between self-deception and survival.

As a therapist who works with many clients navigating modern dating, what makes Anora especially compelling is how it mirrors common challenges of real-world courtship. Beneath the film’s exaggerated scenario lies a universal truth: in early relationships, people often wear masks. Ani feigns enjoyment of bad sex. Ivan convinces himself he’s falling in love. Their self-delusions unravel when reality—in the form of Ivan’s furious parents—comes crashing into town.

I often remind clients that rushing into intimacy can cloud judgment. The modern dating landscape makes slow, intentional connection increasingly rare. Ani and Ivan’s memorable, marvelous, heartbreaking story serves as a cautionary tale. Their circumstances may be extreme, but the emotional risks they take are all too familiar. In the end, Anora forces audiences to confront uncomfortable truths—about power, relationships, and the transactional nature of desire.

With its Oscar triumph, Anora is no longer just a critical darling—it’s an undeniable cinematic milestone. And Madison’s fearless performance has been rightfully celebrated as one of the most unforgettable in recent memory.
If you are interested, check out my original version of this post – pre-oscars, on Psychology .Today

A friend recently introduced me to Bandle – an app that invites users to play name that tune with a twist. The app introduces only one component of the song at a time. With each failed guess, the app splices in one more instrument at a time. I’m a wiz with name that tune; unfortunately, I’m abysmal at Bandle. It turns out it is staggeringly difficult to name a song listening only to the opening snippet of its base – or guitar – or drums. My love of music may be strong, but my understanding of the moving parts involved in musical composition is pedestrian at best. Enter the Tony Award sweeping play, Stereophonic.

Loosely based on the composition process behind Fleetwood Mac’s legendary album “Rumors”, this sensational show takes the audience far behind the scenes of the technical, relational, and creative process of song production. The band members – Diana, Peter, Reg, Holly and Simon — are wildly talented and emotionally flawed. Their two-person tech team – Grover and Charlie – service the musician’s many needs and become an interpretive conduit between the audience and the band as their creations form and their relationships implode.

From a creative perspective, the play is groundbreaking on many musical fronts exploring the complexity of artistic process. Many excellent reviews and podcasts are covering why Stereophonic may become a long-running classic.

From a psychological perspective, the play also breaks unusual ground. When we go behind the scenes of the band’s music, we simultaneously peer behind the scenes of Diana and Peter’s fraught relationship. Diana resents Peter’s unbreakable drive for perfection and work ethic. (But this does not hold him back.) Peter resents Diana’s pure raw if not fully exercised talent. (And his relentless criticism beats her down.) Diana begs Peter to give her the affirmation she lacks from within. Peter refuses, instead impulsively hitting Diana where it hurts. And then, as so often happens following a bitter divorce, when Peter no longer has Diana as an outlet for his rage, it explodes and poisons all of his other important relationships along with the band.

Stereophonic’s creator,David Adjmi, understands the psychology behind dysfunctional intimate relationships as well as he understand the multitude of moving parts of a song. Many pained marriages allow an abusive partner to contain their dysfunction behind the walls of the marriage. If they lose the marriage, they lose a vital emotional dam. And when the floodgates open, the collateral damage can be catastrophic.

For song lovers and relationship therapists alike, Stereophonic is a master class on music and marriage.

The book jacket for Diary of a Mad Housewife describes the novel as “a classic of urban women’s fiction that gave a wry voice to the nascent feminist stirrings of the 1960s.” I’m not sure how I missed it on my mother’s bookshelf while growing up in the 70s, but she confirms that it was right there all along with prominent placement. This engrossing page-turner eventually became a popular Academy Award nominated film, and is full of extremes. Both hilarious and heartbreaking, Sue Kaufman’s best-selling novel paints a portrait of city life in the 1960s that demonstrates how much has changed and how much has stayed the same.

Despite how often characters telephone local shops and charge groceries to their monthly tabs, and a 200 dollar business suit described as an obscene expense, the novel reads as remarkably current. Kaufman’s take on the challenges of motherhood, identity, marriage, and sexual intimacy withstands the test of time.

We meet the novel’s protagonist, Betina (or “Teen” as her husband Jonathan calls her), when she decides to keep a diary as a fitful attempt to cope with the escalating pressures and chaos of her life as a Manhattan housewife. Betina hopes that journaling will help her make sense of her aggressive social life and growing discomfort with the family’s superficial trajectory. She knows she needs help and she finds reading as therapeutic (and comic) as journaling. D.H. Lawrence is among her comforts, as she enjoys the satirical timing while reading as her husband readies himself for bed:

“What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him. Not hate: there was no passion in it. But a profound physical dislike. Almost it seemed to her, she married him because she disliked him, in a secret, physical sort of way. But of course, she had married him really because in a mental way he attracted her and excited her. He had seemed, in some way, her master, beyond her.” I read it three times, and was going over it a forth when Jonathan came out of the bathroom and got into bed. I sat gripping the book, waiting: it was exactly the sort of ironic moment for him to propose a Roll in the Hay. It never failed.

Betina’s diary guides readers through excessive substance use, an extramarital affair, way too many taxi rides, and a slew of raucous cocktail parties that might make certain middle-aged readers feel a little bit boring! At its most depressing, the diary is testament to how easily financial success can lead families down a superficial and dismal path. But the novel’s conclusion feels modestly hopeful and alludes to the possibility that therapy can be worthwhile, even with a substandard therapist. Reading and journaling are, indeed, therapuetic, and authentic change is possible. This cheeky novel captivated readers when published in 1967, and can be healthy bibliotherapy for mothers navigating multiple relationship challenges.

Before diving into Patrick Radden Keefe’s Empire of Pain: The Secret History of the Sackler Dynasty, I understood the dangers of opioid addiction. But I did not understand its gruesome origins. I did not understand the role that one family played in developing a crescendo of addictive drugs beginning with Valium, progressing to MS Contin and ultimately to OxyContin.

While haunting, the book is a captivating education in the history of pharmaceutical marketing, dynastic corporate corruption, and drug dealership. Keefe employs painstaking research and demonstrates the details of OxyContin’s harrowing impact on American culture. The award-winning author of Say Nothing is tireless and unsparing in his breakdown of how three brothers – sons of Jewish Immigrants – transformed the pharmaceutical industry, created the novel strategy of aggressive marketing, and simultaneously compiled a priceless art collection. Ironically, the Sackler family aggressively plastered their names on museum wings throughout the country while remaining meticulous in extricating the family name from any association with their multiple drug companies.

Arthur Sackler, the oldest brother and the family pioneer, was the first doctor to try treating mental illness with through medication. Before his efforts, people who were severely mentally ill were housed in asylums for life. As a Jew, Sackler was unable to find a more mainstream residency following medical school, and he worked at a psychiatric institution where he spearheaded efforts to treat severe mental illness not just with talk therapy, but with psychiatric medication. His work helped patients finally return to their homes and re-enter the mainstream. Unfortunately, the eldest Sackler’s breakthrough accomplishments were grossly counteracted by multiple money-making schemes and deceptive marketing strategies that ultimately hurt so many more than he helped.

Empire of Pain walks readers through an inter-generational saga of greed, pathology, egoism and deception the scale of which seems unparalleled in American history. Readers discover family hubris at the highest levels and take a comprehensive, page-turning journey through its tragic fallout. This astounding book is essential reading for healthcare professionals and for anyone who has lost a loved one to opioid addiction.

Martha (Kirby) & Sean (Shia LaBeouf) are young and full of chemistry and closeness. They exude mutual sexual attraction and enjoy playful, intimate banter. But the cracks in their relationship also show through even before their loss. Martha’s mother (Ellen Burstyn) buys the expectant couple a new minivan, and the family tension related to the young couples’ inability to afford the car on their own feels as potent as the couples’ erotic charge.

When Sean relapses after years of recovery, soon after losing their baby, the relationship spirals. It seems natural to assume that, despite the couples’ bonds, some other life challenge would have inspired a relapse even if their baby had survived.

Whether she is pushing out a baby, trying to have sex with her husband in the wake of immeasurable loss, or fighting with her mother about whether to sue the midwife who delivered the baby, Martha is a wholehearted and believable character who is flawed, relatable and memorable.

Martha’s turbulent path in the wake of her baby’s death is a lesson in human suffering and inner resources that demonstrates how authentic healing often comes from within and rarely involves a path dictated by the requests, demands or advice of others. The heroine’s visceral pain will resonate with anyone suffering through grief, and will also inspire those who are trying to heal.

The book tracks McBride’s journey of self-discovery through a series of interviews with his brilliant, unconventional, renegade mother. McBride creates a narrative of vignettes that toggle between his mother’s life and his own childhood growing up in the Red Hook projects of Brooklyn. The storyline and subsequent personal revelations demonstrate a core principle of therapy — in order to know and understand one’s self, it is important to know and understand one’s parents.

The daughter of a sexually abusive Orthodox Rabbi, McBride’s mother Ruth (born Rachel) flees her family and marries an African American minister and raises thirteen children. She puts twelve of her children through college. Many seek higher education and achieve exceptional professional success.

Ruth’s family disowns her for marrying outside of her faith and her race and she converts to Christianity. She describes her religious transformation as a healing salvation. Ruth and her first husband have 7 children. Then McBride’s father dies while Ruth is pregnant with their 8th child, author James McBride. Ruth eventually remarries and has 5 more children. Ruth’s second husband also dies. Never one to complain or fuss, it is clear through the narrative that McBride must push quite hard to convince his mother to open up about her mysterious past.

McBride writes with simplicity and depth about the challenges of being poor and mixed race. In a memorable exchange he recalls an early memory of his mother crying in church and developing the impression that her tears reflect deep unspoken pain. He wonders if God prefers black people or white people and he asks his mother if God is black or white:

“Oh boy…God’s not black. He’s not white. He’s a spirit.”
“Does he like black or white people better?”
“He loves all people. He’s a spirit.”
“What’s a spirit?”
“A spirit’s a spirit.”
“What color is God’s spirit?”
“It doesn’t have a color,” she said.” God is the color of water. Water doesn’t have a color.” I could buy that….

The struggle to live between two worlds is reflected in Ruth’s family cut off as well as McBride’s struggle to be mixed race. Re-reading the book, parallels with President Obama’s 1995 Memoir “Dreams From My Father” stand out. Published just a year apart, McBride’s memoir received much more attention at the time and has become required reading in classrooms and Universities across the country.

Ruth struggles with her Jewish roots and how they inform her approach to parenting despite her conversion. Similarly, McBride seems as torn between becoming a musician or a writer as he is about his mixed race. As a therapist, I am inclined to over-analyze everything. So it seems to me that his decision to dig deep and investigate his mother’s past helps him discover that he can do both and that each professional endeavor informs and enhances the other. There is a musical quality to the rhythm of his prose as the past and present dance with one another and create an illuminating and harmonious conversation.

Landford Wilson’s Broadway play, Burn This, starring Keri Russell and Adam Driver is a story about grief, and loss, and falling in love. Keri Russell plays Anna, a chic young dancer in New York City in 1987 who has just lost her gay dance partner and housemate, Robbie, in a freak boating accident. Robbie has not come out to his family. So, when Anna attends the funeral, she is treated as if she was Robbie’s girlfriend and she goes along with this charade.

The play opens as Anna, awash in grief, describes the scenes of the funeral to her other housemate, Larry. (Larry was traveling for work and unable to make it to the service.) Anna stretches her limbs and sighs with sadness as a violent door-knocking interrupts her pensive self-reflection. With swagger and abundant male energy, Robbie’s brother, Pale, barges into Anna’s home.

Pale is drunk, belligerent, and broken up about Robbie’s death. Anna and Pale experience a personality clash that invites the audience to wonder about the intense contrasts that must have existed between machismo Pale and his sensitive, gay, dancing brother. The chemistry is immediate. Anna and Pale banter in annoyance as if they have known each other for years. Anna steps in to say what Robbie could not. Pale teases Anna for living in a less than conventional neighborhood in an off-beat, open space. Anna reprimands Pale for his failure to make time to experience the utter joy of seeing Robbie dance. As far as Anna is concerned, Pale didn’t even know his brother.

And yet, Anna and Pale fall quickly and passionately into each other’s embrace.

Burn This explores how two unexpected, grieving souls might be drawn together despite strong differences in personality, preferences and world views. Anna is artsy and wears lots of flowing robes. Pale is a guy’s guy who drinks too much and throws too many punches. Anna seems drawn to the parts of Pale that may be physically or spiritually similar to Robbie, despite their uncanny differences. Pale seems drawn to Anna’s creative energy and the welcoming way she lives outside of the box. Of course, this is a part of Anna’s personality that bonded so deeply with Robbie with his brother during the years that his family rejected him. Their love seems fused by a dual desire to feel closer to Robbie.

One healing strategy through grief or loss is to aim for a corrective emotional experience. An experience can generate a healing value when revisits a painful situation and tries to do something differently in order to navigate a new result. Pale sees, accepts and embraces Anna for who she is. This mirrors the way he should have embraced and accepted his brother. Anne can absorb Pale’s admiration and acceptance as hers, but possibly not entirely hers alone. Perhaps she views Pale’s love as way to finally allow Robbie some version of being loved and embraced for who he was. This journey offers a glimmer of healing for them both.

When Joan Allen and John Malkovich starred in Burn This more than thirty years ago, Joan Allen won a Tony Award as Anna and John Malkovich won notorious praise for his wacky portrayal of Pale. Keri Russell and Adam Driver recreate these roles as their own and create a compelling, unexpected love story that demonstrates how love can sometimes become a healing and corrective emotional experience.

Tana French’s bestselling suspense novel, The Witch Elm, emphasizes the dynamic relationship between the past and the present. The crux of the plot focuses on what happens if we discover that our past is not what it seems. Toby, the novel’s smug protagonist, is a clever gallery publicist who uses his social media savvy to engage in some significant moral lapses at the office but discovers a way through scandal. Buzzed and carefree, he returns from a night on the town in a drunken haze of privilege, imagining that he is and will remain “a lucky person.” But he is robbed and suffers a beating that leaves him close to death. He awakens in the hospital with injuries from which he may never fully recover.

When he and his inexplicably devoted girlfriend, Melissa, head to Toby’s family’s shared country estate to recuperate and care for Toby’s uncle, Hugo, a skull is discovered in the trunk of an elm tree in the front yard. The police investigation that follows calls memories of Toby’s childhood into question. The detective’s mission parallels Toby’s confusing quest to heal his injuries and summon his childhood memories.

French’s dialogue is as engrossing as it is believable. Her characters are flawed and infuriating. The hospital scenes are as engrossing and the late night rants in the family manse, and her descriptive details come to life, even in death:

I swear, even though I know it can’t be true I swear he smiled at me, that old wonderful smile rich with love; I swear he winked one slitted eye. Then all the sharp intricate peaks on the monitor smoothed out to clean straight lines and my father made a terrible growling sound, but even without any of that I would have known because the air around us had split open and whirled and re-formed itself and there was one less person in the room.

Ultimately, what Toby does not bother to think about matters as much as his deliberate efforts to unearth the truth. And this page-turning suspense thriller functions as a memorable tribute to the meaning and value of understanding the past.

Steve Carell convincingly plays David, a thoughtful writer who is cool enough to smoke a joint with his son Nic. (Maybe he is too cool?) David is obviously bonded with Nic and they seem to have carved out a delightful, artistic existence in the Marin County, California. Timothee Chalemet plays Nic, David’s creative, lovable son who applied to seven colleges and is accepted to them all. Nic seems well adjusted to his parent’s divorce and genuinely happily connected to his stepmother and his two half-siblings. It’s Nic’s idea to smoke the joint to celebrate his college acceptances. David is clueless to the secret that the joint is merely a light appetizer warming Nic up to an extensive smorgasbord of other drugs.

The screenplay is adapted from two different books – one written by David Scheff, the other written by his son Nic — and it toggles between the past and the present. Belgian Director and screenwriter Felix Van Groeningen also made the exquisite film about loss and addiction The Broken Circle Breakdown that was nominated for an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film in 2014.

David learns the basic principles and tag lines of substance abuse treatment. “Relapse is a part of recovery.” “Call your sponsor.” Through each relapse episode and subsequent rehab stint, David continues his determined mission to discover why this addiction is so tough to beat. He reads brain studies. He takes other addicts out to lunch. He even tries the drug himself! He listens with a weeping furrowed brow as Nic explains that his first meth high delivered an experience of euphoria so strong that it filled an underlying void. But we never quite learn is what the void is about. This feels a bit frustrating and leaves viewers imagining that the void relates to Nic’s parent’s divorce. Several flashbacks focus on Nic’s trips from one parent to the other. In one flashback, a sullen young Nic boards a flight back to his mother in Los Angeles, and David assures him that he loves him more than everything. The phrase “everything” becomes an ongoing spoken reference code to their connection. Nic’s mother acknowledges that there was a phase of the addiction that she couldn’t handle. But still, we do not gain much clarity about the void.

Perhaps this unanswered question is intentional and implies the possibility that methamphetamine addiction has no “why”. Perhaps the “why” is as random as making one bad choice on one teenage night out blowing off steam. Or, the “why” might involve choosing a friend who turns out to be an addict who convinces others, in a moment of weakness, to give it a try. Regardless of the answer to this difficult question, the film is worth viewing with teenagers to discuss the perils of addiction and the gravity of this current American epidemic.