Let me tell you about a movie that feels like it’s trying to swim against the current of its own emotions. Learning to Breathe Under Water is a serio-comedy that attempts to grapple with grief through the lens of absurdity, but it’s a bit like watching a fish try to climb a tree—cute, maybe, but ultimately unconvincing. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it leans into the idea of art as a chaotic, unpredictable force, much like the human heart. The film’s central metaphor, a shark piercing through a roof, isn’t just a visual gag. It’s a symbol of how grief can rupture the mundane, turning ordinary spaces into surreal landscapes. And yet, the film itself struggles to maintain that same sense of dissonance, often retreating into predictable emotional beats.
Rory Kinnear’s performance, though, is a revelation. He plays Peter, a bereaved artist whose grief manifests in the form of a shark sculpture. Now, here’s where I think the film really shines: Kinnear doesn’t just act the role—he inhabits it. His portrayal of a man teetering between humor and despair is subtle, almost imperceptible, which is exactly what makes it powerful. In my opinion, this is the kind of acting that should be celebrated more often. It’s not about grand gestures or dramatic monologues; it’s about the quiet moments, like when he sits at a piano and lets silence speak for him. That scene alone could have been a masterclass in storytelling, but the film surrounding it feels like it’s trying too hard to be both profound and lighthearted.
What many people don’t realize is how deeply the film’s structure reflects the chaos of grief itself. The narrative jumps between whimsy and melodrama, much like the way we process loss—sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, often confused. The stop-motion animation used to illustrate the protagonist’s son Leo’s inner world is a clever touch, reminiscent of the kind of childlike wonder that can coexist with pain. But then the film falters. The second half descends into what I can only describe as manufactured drama, with conflicts that feel forced and contrived. It’s as if the writers are afraid of the silence that follows a tragedy, so they fill it with noise.
The production design, however, is worth noting. The cluttered home of Peter and his son is a character in itself, a visual representation of a mind in turmoil. The colors, the objects, the way light filters through the chaos—all of it tells a story without words. But this is where the film’s ambitions start to unravel. The set pieces are beautiful, but they’re not enough to carry the emotional weight of the story. It’s like having a symphony orchestra play a single note for an hour. You can appreciate the craftsmanship, but you’re left wanting more.
What this really suggests is that the film’s heart is in the right place, but its execution is muddled. The themes of grief, absurdity, and the search for meaning are universal, but the film doesn’t do justice to them. It’s as if the directors were trying to make a statement about the futility of trying to understand death, but they ended up making a film that’s too afraid to embrace that futility.
In the end, Learning to Breathe Under Water is a reminder that art, like life, is messy. It’s okay to stumble, to backtrack, to question your own direction. But when you’re trying to navigate the deep waters of human emotion, it helps to have a compass. This film has a few stars in its sky, but it’s still searching for the North Star. And that, I think, is the most honest part of all.
