Movies about awkward twenty-somethings are a dime a dozen. Seriously. You can’t throw a rock at an indie film festival without hitting a story about a "quirky" girl who doesn't know how to navigate her own life. But Year of the Carnivore, the 2009 directorial debut from the polymath Sook-Yin Lee, hits a different nerve entirely. It’s messy. It’s kind of gross. It’s intensely human.
Most people remember Sook-Yin Lee as a VJ on MuchMusic or for her controversial role in Shortbus. However, when she stepped behind the camera for this project, she brought a specific, frantic energy that most Canadian cinema lacks.
The story follows Alice, played by Cristin Milioti long before she was the Mother in How I Met Your Mother. Alice is a grocery store detective. Yes, a "shoplifting protagonist" is a trope, but here it serves as a metaphor for her own perceived lack of value. She’s hopelessly in love with a street musician named Eric, played by Mark Rendall. Eric is—to put it bluntly—not that into her. At least, not physically. He tells her she's "desensitized," which leads Alice down a rabbit hole of increasingly bizarre sexual "training" sessions to become a "carnivore" of experience.
The Uncomfortable Reality of Year of the Carnivore
Let’s be real. Watching this movie is sometimes like watching a car crash in slow motion. Alice isn't a "cool" protagonist. She is desperate. She is clumsy. She makes decisions that make you want to pause the film and scream into a pillow.
That’s exactly why Year of the Carnivore works.
It captures that specific brand of post-college paralysis. You’re supposed to be an adult. You’re supposed to know how your body works and how relationships function. But Alice doesn't. She tries to "practice" intimacy with strangers and acquaintances, treating sex like a skill you can level up in a video game. It’s cringey because it’s a heightened version of the performative nature of early adulthood.
Sook-Yin Lee’s direction is vibrant. Vancouver doesn't look like the sterile, glass-and-steel version we see in "CW" shows. It looks lived-in. It feels rainy and gray and sort of sticky. The soundtrack, much of it composed by Lee and Adam Litovitz (her long-time partner and collaborator), is haunting and whimsical. It anchors the film in a dream-like state that contrasts sharply with the very blunt, physical reality of Alice’s failed sexual encounters.
Why Milioti Was the Perfect Choice
Before she was a household name, Cristin Milioti was doing the heavy lifting in indie films like this one. Her eyes are massive. They communicate everything Alice can't say.
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The range she shows here is wild. One minute she’s stoic, trying to catch a shoplifter with a deadpan face, and the next she’s crumbling in a bathroom because she feels fundamentally broken. Milioti avoids the "Manic Pixie Dream Girl" trap. Alice isn't there to save Eric or provide a lesson to a male protagonist. She’s on a selfish, misguided, and often hilarious quest for her own self-actualization.
Mark Rendall plays Eric with the right amount of soft-boy ambiguity. He’s not a villain, but he’s also not the hero. He’s just a guy who isn't sure what he wants, which is perhaps the most relatable (and frustrating) antagonist a person like Alice can face.
Breaking Down the "Carnivore" Philosophy
The title isn't just a catchy phrase. It refers to the idea of devouring life. In the film, Alice is told she’s a "herbivore"—someone who just grazes on the surface of things, afraid to bite down.
To become a carnivore, she thinks she needs to be aggressive.
She starts "sampling" men. There’s a scene involving an older man and a lot of misplaced confidence that is genuinely hard to watch. But Lee isn't mocking Alice. The film has this deep, empathetic core. It understands that when you feel like you're "less than," you'll do almost anything to feel "equal to."
Interestingly, the film received mixed reviews upon release. Critics at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) weren't quite sure what to make of its tonal shifts. Is it a rom-com? Is it a tragedy? Is it a body-horror film about the psyche? It’s kind of all three.
The Sook-Yin Lee Factor
You can’t talk about Year of the Carnivore without talking about Sook-Yin Lee’s bravery as a creator. She has always been someone who pushes boundaries. When she was cast in John Cameron Mitchell’s Shortbus, she was almost fired from the CBC because of the film's explicit nature. She fought back. She stayed.
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That defiance is all over this movie.
She refuses to make Alice "likable" in the traditional sense. Alice is weird. She steals things. She lies. Yet, by the end of the film, you realize that her "carnivore" journey wasn't about becoming a sexual predator or a master of seduction. It was about realizing that she didn't need to perform at all.
Technical Merits and Indie Spirit
The cinematography by Bruce Chun is worth noting. There’s a handheld, intimate quality to the shots that makes you feel like an interloper in Alice’s life. The editing is snappy, often cutting away right at the moment of peak embarrassment, which provides a much-needed comedic rhythm to what could otherwise be a very heavy story.
Budget-wise, this was a modest Canadian production. It didn't have the marketing machine of a Hollywood blockbuster. It relied on word of mouth and the festival circuit. Years later, it has found a cult following among people who discovered Milioti later in her career and went digging through her filmography. They usually come for the "Mother" and stay for the raw, unpolished brilliance of Alice.
Common Misconceptions About the Film
People often go into this thinking it’s a "sex comedy." It really isn't. If you’re looking for American Pie style gags, you’re going to be very disappointed.
- It’s not a romance: Not in the traditional sense. The ending isn't a neat bow where everyone gets married.
- It’s not "anti-men": While some of the male characters are portrayed as oblivious or predatory, the film is more focused on Alice's internal state than a critique of the opposite sex.
- The shoplifting isn't the plot: It’s just the setting. The "detective" work is a backdrop for her internal investigation of herself.
The film handles the concept of "virginity" and "sexual experience" with a level of nuance that was ahead of its time. In 2009, we were still very much in the era of movies making a big deal out of "losing it." Year of the Carnivore suggests that "it" isn't something you lose; it’s a state of mind you grow out of.
How to Watch It Today
Tracking down Year of the Carnivore can be a bit of a hunt depending on your region. It’s frequently available on Canadian streaming platforms like CBC Gem or Crave. In the US, it often pops up on ad-supported services like Tubi or Pluto TV.
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If you’re a fan of Greta Gerwig’s early "mumblecore" work or movies like Ghost World, this is mandatory viewing. It shares that same DNA of female alienation and the awkward transition into adulthood.
Moving Forward: Actionable Insights for Cinephiles
If you are looking to dive deeper into this style of filmmaking or want to explore the themes presented in the movie, here is how to engage with it:
Watch Sook-Yin Lee’s broader work. Don't just stop at this film. Look into her music and her performance in Shortbus. Understanding her history as an artist makes the themes of Year of the Carnivore much clearer. She is obsessed with the intersection of the body and the soul.
Compare and Contrast with "The Worst Person in the World." If you liked the recent Norwegian hit The Worst Person in the World, watch this movie immediately after. It’s fascinating to see how two different directors from two different eras handle the "messy woman" trope. You'll see a lot of similarities in how both films refuse to judge their protagonists for their mistakes.
Support Independent Canadian Cinema. Films like this exist because of grants and a passion for storytelling that isn't dictated by a board of directors. Look into Telefilm Canada’s catalog. There are dozens of "lost" gems from the late 2000s that carry this same raw energy.
Analyze the Soundtrack. Listen to the music separately. It stands alone as a beautiful piece of indie-pop/folk. It captures the "herbivore" versus "carnivore" tension perfectly—soft melodies clashing with sharp, sometimes dissonant lyrics.
Reflect on the Performative Nature of Experience. Think about the areas in your life where you feel like you’re "practicing" being a person rather than just being one. Alice’s struggle is universal. We all have a "year of the carnivore" where we try to force ourselves to be something we aren't, only to realize that the effort itself was the point.
The legacy of this film isn't in its box office numbers. It’s in the way it makes the viewer feel a little less alone in their own skin. It’s a reminder that being a "herbivore" is fine, but sometimes, you really do have to bite.