Stroma Cairns’ directorial debut begins with a striking opening—one that immediately captures attention and reveals characters living in emotional darkness. Unfortunately, the film slowly loses its footing after the first act and ultimately struggles to stick the landing.
From the opening scene through most of the film, the cinematography remains loose and restless. At first glance, the camera work appears sloppy and unintentional. Yet within moments, the visual language begins to make sense. The instability of the camera mirrors the emotional instability of the protagonist. In the opening scene especially, the fragmented framing becomes a direct extension of the character’s fractured state of mind.
Throughout the film the cinematography never becomes significantly sharper, though it does occasionally steady itself during quieter moments. This visual looseness ultimately allows the film to feel natural and lived-in, grounding the characters in a believable emotional space.
The script, written by Cairns and Imogen West, is unfortunately far less controlled. At times it feels overly loose and occasionally veers into incoherence. Several structural issues and narrative gaps become difficult to ignore as the story progresses.
The film’s first act establishes the protagonist as an alcoholic slowly destroying his relationships through reckless drinking and self-destructive behavior. It sets up what appears to be a fairly direct narrative trajectory, only for the story to abruptly shift direction roughly ten minutes later.
By the second act, the film introduces a major plot development that feels almost reminiscent of a Tommy Wiseau–style narrative detour—an important story element appears suddenly, only to be abandoned entirely without meaningful follow-up. From a screenwriting perspective, the moment feels careless and contributes to the film’s overall sense of narrative fragmentation.
Interestingly, another storyline involving the protagonist’s friend is handled far more gracefully. The character’s core conflict is introduced early and slowly fades from the film in a natural, transitional way rather than simply disappearing from the script. It’s one of the few narrative threads that feels thoughtfully constructed.
By the time the credits roll, the film’s central message is fairly clear. In a world defined by constant motion, pressure, and overstimulation, sometimes the only way to move forward is to step away entirely—to reset and recenter oneself. Unfortunately, the film’s execution of that idea remains fragmented.
Many of the film’s most problematic moments feel emotionally authentic but dramatically underdeveloped. The scenes feel real, but rarely cinematic, often lacking the narrative momentum needed to sustain the story.
Cairns’ direction is not entirely without merit, however. At times the film feels less like a traditional narrative and more reminiscent of Richard Linklater’s Slacker, capturing fleeting moments of youth and everyday existence. In those moments, the characters feel genuinely alive despite the script’s larger structural issues.
The performances are one of the film’s most consistent strengths. While no single performance stands out as exceptional, every actor maintains a steady level of authenticity throughout. There are no major missteps among the cast.
Technically, the film delivers a mixed result. The score remains understated and mostly effective, and the editing occasionally shows flashes of precision. The soundtrack, however, often feels overly polished compared to the naturalistic tone of the film. Its heightened emotional cues disrupt the film’s otherwise loose aesthetic, diminishing some of the quieter moments the film works to build.
Ultimately, Cairns’ vision for The Son and the Sea is clearly present. Unfortunately, the film never fully succeeds in bringing that vision to life. While moments of authenticity and strong performances offer glimpses of what the film might have been, the loose script and uneven execution leave the final result feeling off-balance and underdeveloped.