by Andy Strycharski

At an important moment in Ronan Day-Lewis’s freshman effort, the surly Ray Stoker (played superbly by Ronan’s father Daniel in the senior Day-Lewis’s much heralded re-emergence), mocks his brother Jem’s (Sean Bean) clichéd reference to all the time that has passed since Ray retired into isolation from his estranged family. Ray throws his brother’s worthless faith back in his face with a jeering reference to Psalm 103’s image of the days of man being as grass that the wind passes over. That wind is a recurring idea, starting with  an image of it shaking the trees in an opening bird’s eye shot that will reveal the tiny patch of home Ray has carved for himself in the lonely northern forest. But it is the unspoken part of this Psalm, the judgment of waywardness yet also the mercy that can offer redemption, that is the core of the movie. In ways, the redemption narrative is the oldest and best story we share. Yet despite some emotionally and physically gorgeous moments, Anemone struggles to tell it in a way that feels new.

The story is simple and familiar. Jem Stoker ventures into the isolated countryside, seeking to convince his estranged brother Ray to come home to connect with his troubled biological son Brian (Samuel Bottomly). The awkward days and nights as Jem quietly coaxes the volatile and distant Ray to open up about the troubles haunting him, which themselves come from his experiences as a British Soldier during The Troubles, are balanced against scenes of Brian unable to overcome his paternal abandonment, despite the best efforts of his mother Nessa (Samantha Morton) and friend Hattie (an underutilized Safia Oakley Green).

The first admirable choice of the father/son co-writers is having the three men all be members of the Crown forces, the elder brothers during The Troubles, and son in the present. Rather than pitching the personal drama of this fractured family as a result of political oppression, the film instead allows resonant political echoes of the personal shame that lies at this story’s heart. But heart is also, strangely, what the screenplay and the film’s pacing labor to make present. I say strangely because the picture is rich in emotional honesty and turmoil. Yet despite the story’s engaging premise, there’s something wearying in the way Ray slowly peels back the layers of hurt, blame, transgression, and disgrace. The counterplot of Brian’s desperate anger and longing, and Hattie’s frustrating inability to mend her son’s wounds itself asks for more attention. It’s not that the truly engaging emotional turning point, a highlight of Day-Lewis’s stark performance, feels unearned as that the film has used up too much effort and admittedly beautiful photography in earning it.

And Ben Fordsman’s cinematography is indeed beautiful, even allowing for the awkward cgi-enhancements that I still struggle to accept as our time’s matte shots. The nature shots are noteworthy, but the real charm comes when the play of light in Ray’s austere cabin creates ghostly firelight flickering and sun-touched still lifes in the mood of a toned-down Pedro Costa. And the film’s object close-ups, especially the hands and knuckles that are an important motif, are powerful and yet, somehow, gentle. Bobby Krilic’s subtle score both disturbs and embraces in a way that fits the film’s humble settings and patient pacing.

So yes, the film does require patience from its viewers. If that patience is not as fully rewarded as I might have hoped, still Day-Lewis père et fils put something at risk and address their subject matter thoughtfully. It may be a film more interesting to think about than enjoyable to watch, but its care for its subject and for the cinematic art are both, in the end, admirable.

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Andy Strycharski teaches in the English Department at Florida International University