Matt Porterfield has a way of making you feel like a fly on a wall in a house where everyone is screaming internally. That’s the vibe of his 2013 indie darling, and honestly, the i used to be darker film is one of those rare pieces of cinema that captures the messy, jagged edges of family collapse without trying to be "cinematic" in the traditional, polished sense. It’s raw. It’s awkward. It’s deeply Baltimore.
If you haven’t seen it, the plot sounds like a standard Sundance drama. Taryn, a Northern Irish girl played by Deragh Campbell, finds herself in a bit of a pickle after running away from home. She ends up on the doorstep of her aunt and uncle in Maryland. The problem? Their marriage is a radioactive wasteland. Bill and Kim, played by real-life musicians Ned Oldham and Kim Taylor, are in the middle of a separation that feels less like a clean break and more like a slow-motion car crash.
What People Get Wrong About the i used to be darker film
People often go into this expecting a "coming of age" story because of Taryn. They’re wrong. This isn't a movie about a girl finding herself; it’s about a family losing its center of gravity. Most indie films about divorce lean heavily on the "shouting matches in the kitchen" trope. Porterfield doesn't do that. He lets the silence do the heavy lifting. You feel the weight of the objects in the house—the guitars, the half-packed boxes, the cluttered kitchen counters.
The music isn't just a soundtrack here. It’s the blood of the movie. Since Kim Taylor and Ned Oldham are actual musicians, the scenes where they perform feel less like "performances" and more like their characters' only remaining way to communicate. When Kim sings, you aren't just watching a scene; you're witnessing a woman trying to keep her soul intact while her domestic life dissolves. It's visceral.
The Baltimore Aesthetic and the Low-Fi Magic
Baltimore isn't just a backdrop. It’s a character. This isn't the gritty, The Wire version of the city, nor is it the quirky John Waters version. It’s the suburban, leafy, slightly humid Baltimore that rarely gets screen time. Porterfield, a native of the city, uses long takes that force you to sit with the discomfort. Sometimes the camera stays on a face for three seconds longer than you’d expect. It makes you squirm.
The film was shot on 16mm. That matters. In a world of crisp, 4K digital perfection, the grain of the i used to be darker film gives it a tactile quality. It feels like a memory or an old photograph you found under a bed. This texture reflects the crumbling relationship at the heart of the story—it's grainy, it's imperfect, and it's fading.
The Role of Taryn as the Outsider
Deragh Campbell’s performance is understated to the point of being haunting. As Taryn, she is the "audience surrogate," but she’s also a catalyst. She’s pregnant, she’s scared, and she’s looking for a sanctuary that doesn't exist. By placing an outsider in the middle of a domestic war zone, Porterfield highlights the absurdity of the adults' behavior. Bill and Kim are so wrapped up in their own grief and resentment that they barely notice the crisis Taryn is carrying.
It’s a brutal look at how narcissism often accompanies heartbreak.
The Sound of Heartbreak: Ned Oldham and Kim Taylor
If you're into the indie folk scene, you probably recognize the names. Ned Oldham is the brother of Will Oldham (Bonnie "Prince" Billy), and his presence brings a certain gravitas to Bill. He plays the "failing patriarch" with a mix of stubbornness and pathetic vulnerability. Then there’s Kim Taylor. Her songs in the film, like "American Child," aren't just background noise. They provide the emotional exposition that the script intentionally withholds.
A lot of critics at the time, including those at The New York Times and The New Yorker, pointed out that the film bridges the gap between a narrative feature and a concert film. It’s a rhythmic experience. If you’re looking for a tight, three-act structure with a neat resolution, you’re going to be disappointed. This is a film of moods and textures. It's about the "in-between" moments.
Why This Movie Still Matters in 2026
We live in an era of over-explanation. Every character in a modern streaming series has a monologue explaining their trauma. The i used to be darker film refuses to do that. It respects the viewer enough to let them piece together the history of Bill and Kim’s marriage through subtext. You see a look, a sigh, or the way someone holds a glass of water, and you know everything you need to know about ten years of resentment.
It also captures a specific moment in American indie cinema—the "mumblecore" adjacent era where filmmakers were experimenting with non-professional actors and naturalistic dialogue. But Porterfield is more formal than his contemporaries. His shots are composed like paintings. There’s a scene involving a backyard party that is so perfectly blocked it feels like a documentary, yet it’s clearly the work of a director with a very specific eye for geometry.
Common Misconceptions About the Ending
People hate the ending. Or they love it. There's no middle ground. Without giving away spoilers for those who haven't caught it on a streaming service or at a local rep theater, it's safe to say it doesn't "end." It stops. Life continues, but the movie ends. This is a deliberate choice. The director isn't interested in providing a "happily ever after" or even a "sadly ever after." He's interested in the transition.
The title itself—I Used to Be Darker—is a reference to a Bill Callahan (Smog) lyric. Specifically from the song "Jim Cain." It goes: "I used to be darker, then I got lighter, then I got dark again." That’s the cycle of the film. It’s about the oscillation between hope and despair.
Technical Depth: The 16mm Choice
Let's talk about the cinematography by Jeremy Saulnier. Yes, that Jeremy Saulnier—the guy who went on to direct Blue Ruin and Green Room. His work here is stellar. By choosing 16mm, they accepted the limitations of low light and grain. This creates a cozy, claustrophobic atmosphere. It makes the house feel like a cage. When the characters finally step outside, the light feels overwhelming, almost intrusive.
- Director: Matt Porterfield
- Cinematography: Jeremy Saulnier
- Key Cast: Deragh Campbell, Hannah Gross, Ned Oldham, Kim Taylor
- Runtime: 90 minutes of pure atmospheric tension
How to Approach the Film Today
If you’re going to watch it, don't do it on your phone. Turn off the lights. Put on good headphones because the sound design is half the experience. Listen for the cicadas. Listen for the floorboards creaking. This is "slow cinema" for people who usually find slow cinema boring. It’s short—only about an hour and a half—but it stays with you for days.
Honestly, the i used to be darker film is a masterclass in "less is more." It’s about the things we don't say to the people we love most. It’s about the terrifying realization that your parents are just flawed, aging humans who have no idea what they’re doing.
Actionable Takeaways for Cinephiles
If you're inspired by the DIY spirit of this movie, here’s how to dig deeper into this specific niche of American filmmaking:
- Watch the rest of the "Baltimore Trilogy": Porterfield’s other films, Hamilton and Putty Hill, offer a similar vibe and a deeper look at the city’s soul.
- Explore the Soundtrack: Find the discography of Kim Taylor and Ned Oldham. Their music provides the "inner monologue" that the film skips.
- Study the 16mm Look: If you're a filmmaker, look at how Saulnier uses natural light. It’s a lesson in making a small budget look like a deliberate aesthetic choice.
- Listen to Bill Callahan: Since the title is a nod to his lyrics, listening to the album Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle will give you the perfect emotional primer for the film's themes.
The film is currently available on various independent streaming platforms and occasionally pops up on Criterion Channel. It remains a vital piece of the 2010s indie movement, proving that you don't need a massive budget to tell a story that feels massive in its emotional scope.