Here and Now 2018

The film opens with a close-up of Vivienne’s trembling blue eyes, setting a tone of fragility and urgency. A voice from behind the camera soon informs her that she’s late for a rehearsal, delivered by Ben, her manager who appears again as the film threads through a high-pressure day. The news is heavy: a visit with Dr. Marianna Holt reveals a terminal brain tumor, a diagnosis that joltsVivienne into a restless spell of wandering through the streets of New York City. The city, bustling and indifferent, becomes a backdrop to her shifting moods—parting from the outward polish of fame and stepping toward a raw, intimate reckoning with mortality.

Her mother, Jeanne, calls repeatedly as Vivienne navigates a blurred path between work obligations and personal truth. She arrives at the rehearsal studio where her band awaits; she apologizes for the tardiness and is enveloped in a chorus of hugs from the group, though she keeps a wary distance from the drummer, Jordan. As the rehearsal ends, the air thick with unspoken tension, Jordan asks Vivienne out for coffee, only to be rebuffed due to an upcoming interview. The moment hints at something deeper, a fragile connection that might offer solace amid looming decisions, and their fingers linger on the drum set, suggesting a closeness that transcends professional boundaries. Later, on the second floor, their budding tension becomes unmistakable as they share a charged kiss.

Her day spirals into aimless wandering as she heads toward the interview. Along the way she buys an expensive dress, a small—yet telling—gesture of seeking control over a life suddenly felt to be out of reach. The interview itself with Oona feels half-hearted, leaving Vivienne disengaged, almost detached from the dialogue around her. Afterward she reconnects with Ray, their conversation drifting without resolution as she rushes to her Lyft. En route, the ride turns tense when the driver, Sami, becomes distracted by a heated phone call, adding to the already uneasy atmosphere that follows her from the car back into the city’s crowded rooms.

Back home, Vivienne meets her mother in a familiar, unsatisfying tug-of-war. The exchange is charged, and Vivienne responds with bruising bluntness before retreating to her room. A photograph of her daughter Lucie looms large in her mind, provoking a surge of remorse as she realizes how much she has put distance between her career and the people who matter most. A quick call to retrieve her dress from Sami ends in a stubborn refusal to let him drive her; he departs with a quiet finality, and Vivienne remains, staring at the ceiling as if listening for guidance she won’t receive.

The next phase of the night takes Vivienne to her ex’s home, Nick. He invites her to dinner but she declines gracefully, leaving with a lingering sense of unfinished business. A chance encounter with an old friend, Tessa, briefly reconnects Vivienne with a past that once felt more certain, only to watch Tessa drift away to her own birthday party. Vivienne then attends a performance where Jordan is on drums, and she is invited to sing on stage. She performs Rufus Wainwright’s Unfollow the Rules, a moment that crystallizes a desire to reclaim agency in a life suddenly complicated by illness.

That night she and Jordan share an intimate moment at his apartment, a rare spark of normalcy amid the mounting stakes. A second Lyft ride with Sami brings her back toward Nick’s house, where she again confronts the gravity of her condition and the responsibility she bears to Lucie. Nick shows his care and fear, asking for honesty about how things will be disclosed to Lucie, and for a moment the two share a vulnerable, quiet closeness. The scene ends with Vivienne spending the night in Lucie’s presence, watching her daughter sleep as the house settles into a tense, hopeful quiet.

Morning light finds Vivienne stepping away from Nick’s home to prepare for the surgery ahead. A final Lyft with Sami takes her toward the hospital, the hum of uneasy conversations fading into the background as coffee and distance offer small comfort along the ride. They pause outside the hospital for a quick moment of connection, a fleeting attempt at normalcy before the most daunting part of the journey begins. Inside the hospital, Vivienne makes a personal, symbolic gesture—she removes her jewelry—as if shedding the weight of appearances and public perception to face what comes next with bare truth.

In a story about fame, love, and the unyielding truth of mortality, the film threads the intimate details of one artist’s last chapters with a grounded, emotionally resonant realism. It asks how to balance a life lived in the spotlight with the raw, imperfect realities of family, friendship, and the fragile time we do have. The film’s quiet, steadfast commitment to truth—paired with moments of tenderness, longing, and forgiveness—renders a portrait that stays with you long after the final credits roll.