Film Review: Not a Love Story

Brian Lutes’ Not a Love Story is a stirring, unflinching portrait of trauma, loyalty, and redemption. Anchored by raw performances and grounded storytelling, this indie gem doesn’t just tell a story, it dares to confront the generational silence around violence, family loyalty, and the long, difficult road to healing.

Set in 1980, before the internet blurred the line between private wounds and public spectacle, Not a Love Story dives deep into two interconnected lives torn apart by one tragic event. Alec and Chenoa were only twelve when a brutal assault shattered their friendship and innocence. Ten years later, both are scarred in different ways, by guilt, shame, betrayal, and buried pain, and the film explores the possibility (or impossibility) of reconnection in the shadow of what was lost.

From its opening moments, the film grips you with a quiet unease. Lutes resists sensationalizing the central trauma; instead, he lets it unfold with devastating restraint. When Alec’s uncle manipulates the young boy into leaving Chenoa alone with him, the horror that follows is not shown in explicit detail but conveyed through silence, helpless screams, and aftermath, and that choice makes it all the more haunting. It’s a credit to the direction that the emotional impact comes not from spectacle, but from the echo of what’s left unsaid.

Ten years later, Chenoa (played with riveting honesty by Jennifer Lynn Christie) is a woman trying to survive in a world that never gave her the tools to heal. Her performance is a revelation, layered, fierce, and heartbreakingly vulnerable. Whether she’s standing outside Alec’s house, battling ghosts in a supermarket aisle, or confronting the memories that won’t let go, Christie brings authenticity to every gesture. Chenoa isn’t a perfect victim or a cliché survivor; she’s complicated, wounded, guarded, and achingly real.

Opposite her, Andy Courtemanche delivers a quiet, soulful performance as Alec, a young man riddled with guilt and buried truths. Alec’s journey is equally tragic, not just because of the role he unknowingly played in Chenoa’s trauma, but because he too carries a secret that threatens to unravel everything he’s trying to rebuild. One of the film’s most powerful themes is the emotional paralysis of shame, and Courtemanche captures that with a soft-spoken grace that lingers.

The supporting cast deserves praise as well. Kirk Dobbs, as Donato, gives a standout performance, stern yet loving, gruff yet deeply compassionate. His scenes with Chenoa and Alec’s father are among the film’s most emotionally potent. The confrontation between the two men, both of whom failed in their own ways, is a masterclass in understated tension and empathy. Zoë Ravera brings fiery energy to the role of Freddy, Chenoa’s surrogate sister turned antagonist, crafting a complex character who lashes out because she, too, is hurting.

Visually, Not a Love Story makes effective use of its modest budget. The 1980s setting is subtly evoked through costume and set design, without falling into nostalgia or over-stylization. The cinematography is intimate, favoring close shots that highlight character emotion over spectacle. And the rain-soaked scenes, especially the return to the site of the original trauma, are both symbolic and evocative, mirroring the characters' inner storms.

But it’s the writing that truly elevates the film. Brian Lutes’ script doesn’t follow a neat arc. It spirals, stumbles, and confronts, just like real healing. Dialogue feels lived-in, never forced. One particularly gut-wrenching line, “I’m not going to change, don’t you get it? People are just who they are.” (Chenoa to Donato), resonates far beyond the moment. It encapsulates a key truth of the film: that healing is not about becoming someone else, but about being seen, accepted, and loved as you are, wounds and all.

The film’s final act is a devastating blend of heartbreak and grace. What unfolds feels tragically inevitable in a world shaped by trauma and unresolved conflict. And yet, even amid the grief and chaos, Not a Love Story finds room for forgiveness, reconciliation, and a quiet, aching tenderness that lingers long after the credits roll.

In its closing moments, Not a Love Story doesn’t offer tidy resolutions or fairy-tale endings. Instead, it finds quiet strength in the fragile connections between people who have every reason to give up on each other, but choose not to. These final scenes are understated but powerful, reminding us that healing doesn’t always come from answers, but from presence, understanding, and the willingness to show up despite the pain.

Not a Love Story isn’t easy to watch, but that’s exactly why it matters. Independent films like this are essential because they go where mainstream cinema often fears to tread. They offer space for raw, unvarnished emotion, for complex characters, for truths that don’t fit into tidy boxes. Brian Lutes, through his writing and direction, offers a compassionate lens on pain, love, and the long road between the two.

This is the kind of storytelling that demands to be supported. It gives voice to those who’ve been silenced, and it dares to ask: what does it mean to forgive? To heal? To love after everything?

In a world where trauma is too often turned into entertainment, Not a Love Story gives it the dignity of truth.

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In April 2025, Not A Love Story won multiple awards at NYFA, including Best Picture, Best Drama, Best Actress (Jennifer Lynn Christie), Best Supporting Actor (Kirk Dobbs), Best Supporting Actress (Zoë Ravera), Best Editing (Brian Lutes), Best Makeup (Meriem Karachira) and Best Ensemble.