Atonement Review: How One War’s Aftermath Binds Two Families Across Decades

Editor’s note: This review was originally published on May 16, 2026, from the Cannes Film Festival. Kino Lorber will open the film in U.S. theaters on October 2.

In his feature debut, director Reed Van Dyk adapts Dexter Filkins’ 2012 New Yorker article “Atonement After Iraq.” The film offers an intimate, psychologically astute portrait of the human cost of U.S. military action, using cinema’s power to place viewers inside the characters’ experiences.

The movie is an unconventional war story, distinguished by its therapist‑like emotional precision. Drawing from Filkins’ source material—Van Dyk recalled, “I remember reading this piece because I cried all the way through it”—the narrative avoids peripheral combat scenes, focusing instead on the devastating human toll that lies at the heart of its plot.

Set in Iraq’s Baladiyat district, the storytelling concentrates solely on the build‑up, execution, and aftermath of the conflict. Plot and character are woven so tightly that each dramatic turn reveals something about the lives of those trapped in the crosshairs on April 8, 2003.

Hiam Abbass delivers a commanding performance; her presence embodies the history etched on her face. Her poised stillness evokes Marcia from “Succession,” the sole figure to outrank Logan, while the melancholy in her eyes conveys the Palestinian yearning for home—a trait she has previously portrayed in “Bye Bye Tiberias” and “Palestine 36.”

Abbass portrays Mariam Khachaturian, a Christian‑Armenian Iraqi teacher with a large family—a husband, two sons, two daughters, and two grandchildren, including a baby. Mariam is shown as a self‑possessed, devout woman who internalizes her pain, speaking with clarity and grace. When war arrives, she remains cautious yet calm, and her steady demeanor heightens the impact of every subsequent emotional outburst.

The film opens on that April morning in Baghdad, where three generations of Khachaturians prepare a meal from fresh produce. Weeks have passed since U.S. troops invaded, and bombs are falling while water and electricity flicker on and off. Yet family bonds endure: Mariam’s daughter Nora (Gheed) eats cherries and spits out the pits, children chase a ball under a car, and the family watches TV news with weary tolerance for Saddam Hussein’s rhetoric. They debate whether to return from a sister’s safe house to their own home nearby.

The atmosphere is charged with a tenderness that transcends typical pre‑disaster tension. The camera lingers on faces—the fleeting glances, the unspoken worry, and the tableau of coexistence. This is a close‑knit family who speak in shorthand. A blast fills the house with white smoke; miraculously, no one is injured, but the decision to leave has been made for them. They load into a convoy of two cars, staying connected by phone. The scene cuts to the opposite perspective that will prove pivotal.

Lou (Boyd Holbrook) is a U.S. Marine arriving in the town with his comrades in an open‑topped vehicle, joking provocatively about one another. Van Dyk frames their arrival through the eyes of local residents, capturing the wary yet resilient atmosphere of early occupation. Pride is weighed against survival; people glance at the soldiers then look away, moving with deliberate slowness. One defiant man ignores a greeting, prompting a marine armed with a machine gun to mutter, “What the fuck was his problem?”

The setting, filmed on location in Jordan as a stand‑in for Iraq, juxtaposes stark contrasts: spent shell casings sit beside fruit stalls where children eat peaches. Lou’s unit is sent to a rooftop to fire on an unseen enemy; the Khachaturian cars hear the gunfire and are left bewildered. A few frantic moments later, nothing will be the same. The sadness of this sequence is immeasurable—it marks the only time Mariam screams.

These events unfold in the film’s first third. The second act shifts to Lou in Los Angeles a decade later, where he is a haunted, trembling wreck prone to shaking during sex with his on‑again/off‑again partner Anna (Gratiela Brancusi). Asking viewers to empathize with a man responsible for such trauma is a bold gamble; any slide into sentimentality, special pleading, or, worse, American exceptionalism could shatter the film’s fragile credibility.

The narrative is anchored by robust reporting that provides a clear roadmap for the characters. Rather than attempting to redeem Lou, the film reveals his painful backstory and makes deliberate visual choices that suit its medium. Lou’s muscular body is always clothed in unflattering, unironed clothes; even when he attempts to dress sharply, he appears sleep‑deprived.

At a veterans’ support group, Anna reflects that “when a bullet is fired, it shoots both ways.” Brancusi offers a finely tuned performance as a woman struggling not to lose herself amid the madness consuming her loved one. Gradually, “Atonement” challenges the simplistic notion of killers versus victims, posing the implicit question: which unseen force bears responsibility for this shared suffering?

Filkins introduces a fictional surrogate to bridge the Khachaturians and Lou: New Yorker journalist Michael Reid, played by Kenneth Branagh. He appears near the end of the Baghdad segment to document Mariam and Nora’s stories. Years later, Lou discovers this account, giving his guilt a tangible point of contact as the characters now live in California.

Whereas a Hollywood adaptation might climax in grand melodramatic catharsis, “Atonement” opts for quieter, more restrained resolutions. Its title feels expansive for the modest place where the story concludes. There is no attempt to dissolve grief into a “happily ever after” ending; instead, the film seeks fleeting moments of grace among people bound by the same act of conflict.

Holbrook and Abbass work from opposite poles of performance—Holbrook’s character unravels, while Abbass’s Mariam maintains a majestic composure. Amid silences and stilted dialogue, their willingness to share a room creates a relationship that transcends their roles as killer and survivor. The film evokes a line from Rumi: “Somewhere beyond right and wrong, there is a garden, I will meet you there.”

Grade: A-

“Atonement” premiered at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival.

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