A Real Pain

Confronting the Past, Grief, and the Search for Meaning
di Angela Pangallo

Some films linger in your mind long after the credits roll—not because of grand spectacles or shocking twists, but because they quietly expose the rawest parts of the human experience. A Real Pain, directed by and starring Jesse Eisenberg, is one of those films. With a delicate balance of humor and melancholy, it explores themes of grief, memory, and the ways we try to make sense of our own histories.

On the surface, A Real Pain follows two estranged cousins, David (Jesse Eisenberg) and Benji (Kieran Culkin), who embark on a guided tour of Poland to explore their shared Jewish heritage. What begins as a journey of cultural and historical reflection quickly turns into something far more personal. As they navigate the weight of generational trauma, personal grief, and their complicated relationship, the film subtly asks: how do we process pain that isn’t entirely our own? And what do we owe to the past?

At its core, A Real Pain is a film about grief—not just personal loss, but inherited sorrow. David and Benji come from a family deeply shaped by the Holocaust, a tragedy that looms over their identities even though they never directly experienced it. Their visit to Poland forces them to confront the echoes of this past, but their reactions couldn’t be more different.

David is reserved, introspective, and emotionally restrained. Benji, on the other hand, is brash, chaotic, and often inappropriate—using humor and impulsivity as shields against deeper pain. Their dynamic makes for a fascinating study of how people process trauma in vastly different ways. One seeks quiet reflection, the other deflects with jokes and reckless behavior. But as the film unfolds, it becomes clear that beneath Benji’s comedic exterior lies a profound sadness he can’t articulate.

Eisenberg, both as a writer and director, masterfully captures the complexity of grief—the way it can manifest in unpredictable ways, the struggle to find meaning in loss, and the tension between wanting to remember and wanting to move forward. His approach feels deeply personal, never veering into melodrama but instead finding poignancy in the small, unscripted moments of human connection.

While A Real Pain is a beautifully crafted film in many aspects, it is Kieran Culkin’s performance that elevates it to something extraordinary. Fresh off his Emmy-winning turn in Succession, Culkin brings an emotional depth to Benji that is at once heartbreaking and infuriating. His character is unpredictable—one moment he’s making an irreverent joke, the next he’s lashing out in a fit of self- destructive behavior.

What makes Culkin’s portrayal so compelling is the vulnerability beneath the bravado. Benji is someone who feels everything too deeply but has no idea how to process it. His pain is both palpable and frustrating, making him a difficult but deeply human character. The chemistry between Culkin and Eisenberg is electric—each playing off the other’s strengths to create a dynamic that feels completely authentic

The guided tour of Poland isn’t just a setting—it’s a metaphor for the way history shapes identity. As David and Benji visit museums, memorials, and historic sites, they are forced to engage with a past that feels both distant and eerily present. Eisenberg’s direction ensures that these locations aren’t just passive backdrops; they actively influence the characters’ emotional states. The film subtly questions whether structured, institutionalized remembrance can ever truly capture the raw, personal weight of history. While their tour guide provides carefully curated historical facts, David and Benji’s personal experiences within these spaces reveal something much more intimate—the tension between collective memory and individual emotion.

One of the film’s most powerful themes is how trauma is passed down through generations. David and Benji are not survivors, nor did they directly experience the horrors their ancestors endured. And yet, the weight of history still shapes them, influencing their sense of identity in ways they don’t fully understand.

Eisenberg presents this theme without heavy-handed exposition. Instead, he lets it seep into the interactions between the characters, the landscapes they traverse, and the unspoken tensions that arise. The film doesn’t attempt to provide easy answers—rather, it forces the audience to sit with the discomfort of inherited pain and the question of what to do with it.

In a time when many films about historical trauma aim for sweeping, grandiose narratives, A Real Pain takes a different approach. It is deeply personal, focused not on history as an abstract concept, but on how it lingers in the lives of ordinary people. It doesn’t seek to educate with facts and figures, but rather to evoke the complex emotions that come with carrying the past into the present.

More than just a film about grief or Jewish identity, A Real Pain is about the universal struggle to find meaning in loss. It reminds us that pain—real, unfiltered pain—is often messy, irrational, and deeply personal. And yet, through connection, through humor, and through confronting the past rather than running from it, we may find a way to live with it.

Eisenberg’s direction is understated yet deeply effective, allowing the film’s emotional weight to build organically rather than being forced upon the audience. The result is a film that feels both intimate and profound, striking a delicate balance between sorrow and humor—just as life itself often does.

A Real Pain is not just a film about remembering—it’s a film about feeling. And in a world that often struggles to confront its own history, that may be its most powerful achievement.