Tracey Fragments is broken into often dozens of tiny screens which replay incidents again and again, spin them from slightly different angles, or shrink and grow the size of the window to reflect the importance of the detail at the moment. This is spectacular if a little obvious at times. At one point she is reading a comic book, at another a magazine of her own life. A very visual way of teenage self-absorption and self-importance, which has the curious effect of baffling Tracey, as she bemusedly flips through the pages before retiring it back to the convenience store shelf. Comic and magazine media use the paneled aesthetic (with large chunks of boldface embedded text, emotional exclamation points) further adding to the layered approach of the film. Shots of background details: people’s feet, a Love-O-Meter machine in a strip mall, donuts on a rack, et cetera often clutter the screen to further show how images and details in the background often mildly occupy. Fortunately though, perhaps due to the rawness of the individual shots, this never comes across like a director or editor showing off to the audience, it is in service to the right type of story.

The style is the obvious hook to the film, but what is more interesting (and just as relevant to the title) is the choice to level Tracey’s character in reality (baring some obvious flights of fantasy and self image to initially set up her character) while amplifying all of the characters around her. Her parents come across as somewhere between clueless monsters or emotional zombies. Her government-subsidized psychiatrist is played creepy character actor Julian Richings (when someone like Brad Dourif is not crazy looking enough, folks go to Richings with his skeletal face and wounded eyes). If that is not enough, it is Richings in drag: A tasteful sweater, skirt and pumps. This is of course how 15 year old Tracey, ignored at home and picked on at school, views the world. Little is offered in the way of exposition over the course of the crisp 80 minutes. The nonlinear narrative is assembled by often going back over details and events, echoing the confusion, fear and frustration in Tracey as she replays incidents over in her head. Still, the film flirts with gets bogged down in the flop-house of a drifter Tracey meets (Lance from Toronto) and they hole up at his place before Tracey is driven off by a visitor threatening sexual violence. Curiously, a near rape in the film is not as devastating as consensual sex with her euro-goth boyfriend (and object of her sexual fantasies) and the resulting harsh betrayal of young puppy love.

It should be an interesting film to view between teenager and their parents if either party can get past the oft-times extreme reflection The Tracey Fragments gives of both parties. The subjective nature of the film offers a unique look into the mind of a sharp yet confused soul looking for a place of solace and getting naught but cold comfort. McDonald may be onto something by comparing the know-it-all scoff of teenage years and equal measure of impotence with the nature of communicating (even dreaming) in modern mass-media.