What if your partner vanished into thin air, only to return as a stranger? That’s the eerie question Lili Horvat’s My Notes on Mars poses, wrapping a sci-fi mystery in the raw nerve of a crumbling marriage. This isn’t just a film about missing persons—it’s a psychological dissection of love, memory, and the fragility of identity. And honestly, I think it’s one of the most unsettling explorations of modern relationships I’ve seen in years. Let’s unpack why this film feels like a mirror held up to our collective anxiety about who we are when the world changes around us.
Horvat, the Hungarian director known for her cerebral storytelling, takes a risk here by blending hard sci-fi with intimate drama. The result is a narrative that feels both alien and achingly familiar. Mackenzie Davis and Rupert Friend play Margot and Sam, a couple whose relationship is already fraying before the plot’s central twist. Their dynamic is the kind of toxic coexistence that makes you wonder: Are they stuck together out of love, or just habit? Davis, with her ethereal presence, embodies the intellectual isolation of someone who once dreamed of Mars but now lives in a Hungarian village breeding horses. Friend’s Sam is the earthy counterpoint, a man who finds solace in the tangible—animals, mountains, the rhythm of rural life. Their chemistry isn’t romantic in the traditional sense; it’s more like two people trying to fit puzzle pieces that don’t quite match. And that, personally, I think, is the genius of the film. It doesn’t romanticize love—it dissects it like a lab specimen.
The plot hinges on a disappearance that defies logic. Margot, a former planetary scientist, vanishes during a hike, only to reappear with no memory of her life—or her husband. But here’s what makes this particularly fascinating: the film doesn’t just ask, Who is she now? It asks, Who were we when we fell in love? The twist isn’t just a gimmick; it’s a metaphor for how relationships evolve (or devolve) when one partner’s world shifts. Margot’s obsession with destroying her notebook—a symbol of her former self—mirrors the way people often try to erase their past selves when entering new phases of life. And yet, the film suggests that erasure is impossible. You can’t unlearn who you were, even if you want to.
What many people don’t realize is that My Notes on Mars is less about aliens or alternate realities and more about the alienation we feel within our own lives. The sci-fi elements are a Trojan horse for deeper questions: If your partner returned from the dead but didn’t remember you, would you still love them? Or would you be haunted by the person they once were? This isn’t just a plot device—it’s a reflection of how we cling to the idea of who someone is, even as they change. It’s the same way we treat relationships: we assume they’ll stay the same, but they’re always in flux. And when they don’t meet our expectations, we’re left wondering if we loved the person, or just the idea of them.
The film’s structure is deliberately disorienting, much like the emotional chaos of a failing relationship. Scenes jump between Margot’s fragmented memories and her present-day confusion, forcing the audience to question reality as much as the characters do. Horvat uses the Martian theme not just as a backdrop but as a metaphor for the vast, unknowable nature of human connection. Mars is a place of extremes—cold, desolate, full of secrets. So is love, when you strip away the romance. What this really suggests is that we’re all navigating a kind of outer space, trying to find common ground with people who may not be the same as when we first met them.
And let’s talk about the casting. Davis and Friend are perfect in their roles because they bring a quiet intensity that makes you believe in the possibility of both love and betrayal. Davis’s Margot is a woman torn between her intellectual curiosity and the emotional weight of her choices. Friend’s Sam is the grounded anchor, but even he isn’t immune to the film’s existential dread. Their performances make you feel the tension of a relationship that’s not just falling apart—it’s being rewritten in real time. I can’t help but think this film is a commentary on how modern relationships are shaped by external forces: careers, geography, even the pursuit of knowledge. When one partner’s world expands (Margot’s Mars research), the other’s shrinks (Sam’s horse farm). The imbalance becomes unsustainable, and the film doesn’t judge—it just shows the fallout.
What I find especially interesting is how My Notes on Mars taps into a broader cultural obsession with identity and authenticity. In an age where we’re constantly reinventing ourselves online, the film asks: Can a person truly be the same after a transformation? The answer, I think, is no—but that doesn’t mean the relationship is over. It just means both people have to decide whether they’re willing to adapt. The film’s climax, where Margot’s fractured self confronts Sam’s expectations, is less about solving a mystery and more about confronting the truth: love isn’t about finding someone who fits perfectly—it’s about choosing to stay with someone even when they become unrecognizable.
If you take a step back and think about it, My Notes on Mars is a warning and a hope wrapped in one. It warns that relationships are fragile, subject to the same forces that shape our identities. But it also offers hope that love can endure, even in the face of profound change. The final scene, where Margot and Sam sit in silence, is not a resolution—it’s an open question. And that’s the point. Life isn’t a neatly packaged story; it’s a series of choices, mistakes, and moments of clarity. As much as we want to control our relationships, they’re as unpredictable as the red dust of Mars. And maybe that’s what makes them worth the risk.
