How The Lost Daughter confronts one of our most enduring cultural taboos

Maggie Gyllenhaal's directorial debut, adapted from the short novel by Elena Ferrante, unravels the myth that motherhood comes naturally to women

It is clear from the opening minutes of The Lost Daughter, Maggie Gyllenhaal's melancholic, bristly directorial debut on Netflix, that a dark secret stalks the sunny Mediterranean vacation of Leda Caruso, (a luminous Olivia Colman), a 48-year-old English professor of comparative literature. Her working holiday" at a Greek island is immediately beset by increasingly ominous intrusions: a spectral foghorn, a bowl of rotting fruit, a shrill cicada, a boisterous Italian American family from Queens who disrupt her beachside reading. Memories pull at her focus; when the young daughter of Nina (Dakota Johnson), a beautiful, languid member of the Queens bunch who immediately catches Leda's attention, goes briefly missing, Nina's panic elides with a flashback to twentysomething Leda's (Jessie Buckley) frantic search for her daughter Bianca at a beach.

It's a familiar language of buried secrets, sinister subtext and unspooling memories - the building blocks of suspense - but the landmines in The Lost Daughter aren't the usual culprits of dark revelation: unspeakable trauma or abuse, evil spirits, suppressed desires, the ravages of capitalism or greed. Instead, the molten core of The Lost Daughter is one of our culture's most enduring and least touchable taboos: the selfish, uncaring, unnatural" mother - one who doesn't shift easily to care-taking, who does not relish her role, who not only begrudges but resents her children.