“A film whose tight direction is contrasted by its loose writing, with a magnificent central performance tipping the scales towards the positive.”

The lush greens of the seemingly endless forests of Southwestern Ireland are magical. This is the sort of land where fairy tales are born. But like the fairy tales of old, Dutch director Nanouk Leopold’s seventh feature Whitetail has a dark streak running through the forest, an ink-black stain from the past that haunts the story’s protagonist until this day. Leopold’s characters seldom are expressive with words, fitting for a story about repressed guilt and withheld grief, though perhaps less appealing to those who want their drama more externalized. Finely shot and acted, but with one or two plot strands too many, Whitetail is the kind of small drama that should play well in select theatres despite a feeling of been-there-done-that.

Hunting is a part of life for many in these woods, including two teenagers looking for the kind of deer referred to in the film’s title. The dense forest also allows for other activities between two young lovers. After a passionate tryst, the girl, Jen (Abby Fitz), spots prey. Initial exuberance over a succesful kill turns dark real quick when it is revealed she did not hit a deer, but her younger sister Erica.

Fast forward twenty years, and Jen (now played by Natasha O’Keeffe) has never truly moved on from the horrific accident. Her forest lover, Oscar, skipped town shortly afterward. Living with a mother who was never able to forgive her and a father (Andrew Bennett) who was as closed-off about the drama as she was, Jen has hurled herself into her work to block out the past. She still roams those forests, but now as a ranger focused on preservation and rooting out poachers. When Oscar (Aaron McCusker) unexpectedly returns to the small town, tongues start wagging and old wounds are re-opened. Jen is furiously unhappy about Oscar’s return, but it dislodges her from being ‘stuck in tar’, as her dad expresses it when he finally opens up about his feelings of failure regarding the way he handled the aftermath of the fatal shooting.

It seems that Oscar’s return has made everybody in town more loose-tongued. A local police officer (Aidan O’Hare) declares his romantic interest in Jen (and is head-butted in return), and her close friend Bobby (Rory Nolan) on the verge of his wedding day suddenly opens up about his regret that he and Jen never got together. Jen wants none of that, limiting her moments of intimacy to emotionless sex with a bartender three towns over (a nice contrast with the passion of the opening scene). These plot threads are left dangling, the men at the heart of them mere plot devices to deepen Jen’s troubles, as if Oscar’s return dredging up the darkness in Jen’s past isn’t enough. The central triangle between Jen, her dad, and Oscar would have been sufficient for a compelling drama. Especially the moment of closure between the two former lovers could have been deepened, but is now rushed in lieu of scenes with characters that eventually go nowhere.

It’s not the fault of the actors, as the supporting cast is uniformly up to the task of displaying their concern and unrequited love, although O’Keeffe is the clear star of the show. In every scene except the opening one, her character is not prone to express her feelings verbally, preferring to hold every emotion in, which requires O’Keeffe to communicate Jen’s inner feelings through her eyes and physical tension in her face and body. It is the kind of internalized performance that is rarely rewarded, but in a fairer world O’Keeffe, best known for her role as Lizzie Stark in Peaky Blinders, would get recognition in year-end awards.

Leopold’s direction is assured and shows the hand of a seasoned filmmaker who knows how to tell a story through visuals. Very understated scenes, often perfectly composed, let the film ripple along like a forest stream. Her compositional work is enhanced by the cinematography of DoP Frank van den Eeden, who brings out the lush greens that envelop the characters (sometimes completely but often even as a backdrop), and also applies soft lighting in interior scenes to evoke a sense of safety and warmth, especially effective in the moments between Jen and her dad. Playing with depth-of-field to penetrate Jen’s inner space, van den Eeden’s camera lingers on a recurring motif of crawling beetles, a symbol of the forest’s grip on Jen’s psyche as the source of her trauma. This leads to an almost poetic, if quite downbeat ending that mirrors the film’s opening, but unfortunately turns to a coda that provides a more positive outcome. It’s a missed chance, and not the only flaw in Whitetail, a film whose tight direction is contrasted by its loose writing, with a magnificent central performance tipping the scales towards the positive.