THE HEIRLOOM Film Review: Ben Petrie and Grace Glowicki Balance Life and Art

When I interviewed Ben Petrie and Grace Glowicki at SXSW for Dead Lover, what stood out was the quiet respect they had for each other. Ben listened carefully as Grace, his real-life partner, talked through her process and creative instincts. She offered the same space to Ben, as he spoke about collaboration and performance. Grace directed that film; Ben directs this one. But both films reflect the same foundation of trust, and more than that, a shared openness to being shaped by the work itself.

That openness defines The Heirloom, a film as personal as it is quietly disarming. It’s currently playing in Brooklyn, with Q&As hosted by filmmakers like Matt Johnson and Charlotte Wells – a testament to how deeply respected this pair has become. Their network includes familiar faces, like Leah Doz, who also appeared in Dead Lover and has a brief role here. More importantly, though, these relationships reflect the genuine love the film community has for this pair. What they’re building together continues to shape independent filmmaking — in Canada, and beyond.

What is The Heirloom About?

Set during the early days of the COVID lockdown, The Heirloom follows Eric (Petrie), a filmmaker with a quiet obsession for control, and his partner Allie (Glowicki), who’s guided more by instinct — and growing increasingly restless. When Allie pushes to adopt a dog, Eric agrees — but only if it’s a rescue. What arrives is Milly, a traumatized dog from the Dominican Republic, whose presence spotlights the cracks already forming in their relationship.

Eric throws himself into “pack leader” ideology — listening with near-religious fervour to a behavioural philosophy centered on control and discipline. But the deeper he sinks into this logic, the more his internal life begins to fracture.

Allie doesn’t pull away so much as fade. She watches old home movies. She drifts. The breakdown isn’t loud – it’s slow. A quiet retreat on both sides, without the language to call it what it is.

The Making of The Heirloom

Filmed in a rented apartment just down the street from Petrie and Glowicki’s real home — and filled with their actual furniture — The Heirloom was made with a skeleton crew. The result is a film that feels naturally improvised and “lived-in”.

But even with that looseness, the film has shape. And purpose. It’s grounded in its construction – often mundane, frequently quiet, sometimes unsettling, but always threaded with a dry humour strong enough to pull us out of the monotony. It reflects the emotional tone of lockdown in ways that haven’t really made it to screen – not abstracted through metaphor or genre, but laid out plainly for us to see.

There’s a fascinating rhythm here, particularly when we compare it to a very different film in Dead Lover. Dead Lover was all charged energy — the heightened emotions of love in its early, volatile stage. The Heirloom is what comes after: it is smaller, heavier, and more confined.

Cinematography and Visual Language

Shot in a 4:3 aspect ratio by Kelly Jeffrey, the film’s frame reflects its emotional claustrophobia. There’s not much room to move – physically or emotionally – and that’s central to the film’s impact.

Lighting is practical and unforgiving. In one scene, Eric sits at his laptop in near darkness. The footage is noisy. But the film isn’t trying to hide that. There’s no attempt to artificially inflate the dynamic range of something that wasn’t lit for precision. At times, the loss of detail becomes a tool in itself – the closet Milly retreats into is swallowed by shadow, mirroring the emotional withdrawal of our characters.

The camera doesn’t draw attention to itself. It doesn’t move unless it needs to. It holds space. There’s a stillness to the composition that makes everything feel uncomfortably close. You’re in the room with them – and not always at the right time. It so subtly balances intimacy and unease and prioritizes observation over artificial tension.

Ben Petrie and Grace Glowicki Playing Versions of Themselves

It’s hard to overstate how difficult it is to act this naturally – letting silence hang, allowing discomfort to just sit there. It makes sense, I suppose, that such naturalism comes from two actors playing fictionalized versions of themselves. Glowicki and Petrie blur the line between reality and performance, which is part of the film’s broader meta-textual framework. Their rhythm is loose and occasionally disjointed. They interrupt each other. They stumble through thoughts. There’s a stretch of early scenes where they’re goofy, unapologetic, and effortlessly charming – but the cracks start to show as dialogue becomes unanswered questions, and pet names morph into passive-aggressive jabs.

The humour hits in a way that feels aligned with my own – dry, deadpan, and occasionally ridiculous. It’s as much about delivery as it is about the words themselves. They don’t read nearly as well as they play. Still, a line about needing to be “a little more explicitly chill” is pure gold no matter how you frame it. That humour, though, gradually gives way to something heavier. Glowicki, seated in a rocking chair, framed by the window. Petrie is across the room, shot in a near-perfect reverse. He talks. She doesn’t. She just rocks. They’re framed symmetrically – almost the same person – but emotionally, they couldn’t be further apart.

But What is The Heirloom Really About?

On its surface, The Heirloom may look like a conventional relationship drama, orbiting the ever-present possibility of a breakup. Beneath that, though, Petrie has crafted a nuanced film on obsession, control, and self-hatred.

Eric doesn’t just want to care for Milly. He wants a process. A plan. A structure to impose. But that mindset spills into everything – his creative work, his partnership, and his sense of self. Ultimately, what starts as the strong and powerful voice of a “pack leader” becomes internalized. “Bad“. “Stupid“. “Failure“. These words are delivered internally with such ferocity that it had me reflect on my own internal dialogue. I’ve heard versions of that same voice. Perhaps not as demonic as Ben, but certainly not unfamiliar.

Allie chooses a different kind of escape. She withdraws – into memory, into herself. She doesn’t resist. But she’s no longer present. The push for control and the pull into nostalgia so beautifully encapsulate the different ways we try to escape from our realities.

And then she says it: “I need you to know, I’m not a movie.” That one line is truly the underlying tension of the film. How do you make something this personal – in your “home”, with your partner – and still protect the boundary between performance and relationship? The answer, of course, is that you can’t. Not fully.

Final Thoughts

The Heirloom won’t connect with everyone. Its humour is dry. Its pace is patient. Its structure doesn’t build toward a single crescendo, nor does it resolve with any tidy sense of closure. But that’s the point. It’s not a film about winning. It’s about friction, and maintenance, and the quiet victories that come from not walking away.

The final drone shot almost fools you. It’s smooth. Poised. Then suddenly, it jerks, wobbles, and the sound of its whir fills the speakers. The illusion breaks – and just like that, we’re no longer watching a film. We’re watching something handmade.

It’s a reminder not to get lost. Not in perfection. Not in control. Not in curating the perfect narrative of your life. It’s a reminder to be here. With your partner. With your mess. Even when it doesn’t feel like a movie.