The Absurdity of Grief, Encapsulated in a Metal Shark
Art, like grief, refuses to be tamed. It morphs, rebels, and often defies the intentions of its creator. This tension between control and chaos lies at the heart of Learning to Breathe Under Water, a film that dares to ask: Can a family rebuild itself around a literal shark piercing their roof? The answer, unfortunately, is as messy as the question.
The Shark as a Metaphor for Grief
The Headington Shark—a fiberglass sculpture originally meant to protest war—is repurposed here as a symbol of a father’s unraveling. Rory Kinnear’s Peter welds a jagged metal predator through his home’s ceiling, a physical manifestation of trauma that’s both literal and absurd. What many people don’t realize is that grief isn’t always profound; sometimes it’s just weird. The shark isn’t a elegy, it’s a tantrum—a middle finger to the universe’s indifference. But here’s the rub: Art’s power often lies in its ambiguity. The original Headington Shark’s political message faded over time, replaced by local folklore and meme culture. Similarly, Peter’s shark becomes a Rorschach test: Is it a cry for help, a memorial, or just a dad losing his grip?
When Ambition Overshoots Its Mark
Director Rebekah Fortune and screenwriter Richard Brabin clearly want to blend whimsy with raw emotion, but the tonal whiplash is jarring. One moment, we’re in a quirky indie dramedy—a child stimming, a stop-motion fantasy sequence—the next, a melodrama about a breakup that feels engineered by a screenwriting algorithm. From my perspective, this isn’t just uneven; it’s a failure to commit to the film’s own rules. The shark’s presence demands a certain surrealism, yet the script keeps retreating into clichés about grief groups and romantic tension. If you take a step back and think about it, the au pair subplot (played by Maria Bakalova) isn’t just contrived—it undermines the core father-son dynamic that gives the film its heartbeat.
Rory Kinnear: A Talent Finally Unleashed
Kinnear’s performance, though, is a masterclass in understated anguish. His best scene—a silent breakdown at a piano—captures the aftershocks of loss better than any monologue could. Personally, I think this role should catapult him into more leading roles; his ability to balance humor and despair is rare. But why does it feel so radical to see him carry a film? British cinema has typecast him as the quirky sidekick for too long, as if his range is a threat to the industry’s safe, predictable formulas. His performance here isn’t just good—it’s a quiet rebellion against artistic stagnation.
The Production Design as a Psychological Mirror
The film’s most subtle triumph is its use of clutter. Peter’s home isn’t just messy; it’s a visual diary of grief. The accumulation of objects—art supplies, half-finished projects—ebbs and flows like a tide. A detail I find especially interesting is how the color palette shifts: muted grays during despair, bursts of red during moments of connection. It’s a clever metaphor, but one that raises a deeper question: Can a physical space ever truly contain emotional chaos? The answer seems to be no—and that’s the point.
Why This Film Matters (Despite Its Flaws)
Learning to Breathe Under Water is a fascinating case study in artistic ambition. Its failure to balance tone is instructive, but its willingness to confront grief through absurdity is refreshing. In an era of formulaic indie dramas, I’d argue we need more films that swing for the fences—even if they miss. The shark, after all, isn’t supposed to make sense. It’s supposed to provoke, to linger in the mind like a half-remembered dream. And in that sense, the film succeeds. It doesn’t just tell a story about loss; it forces us to reckon with the messy, unresolvable nature of healing itself.
Final Thoughts: The Danger of Mixed Metaphors
Ultimately, the film’s greatest flaw is its indecision. Is it a dark comedy? A tragedy? A fable? The answer seems to shift scene by scene. Yet, there’s a strange beauty in that imperfection. Like the Headington Shark, which became a cultural icon despite (or because of) its contested meaning, Learning to Breathe Under Water lingers. It’s a reminder that art, like grief, resists closure. And maybe that’s the point. After all, what’s more human than leaving things a little messy?
