“A mood-driven existential drama that is as bewildering as it is strikingly beautiful.”

There are certain filmmakers whose talent is undeniable, but who are not designed to appeal to the mainstream audience, primarily because their style or artistic approach is not quite analogous to what draws crowds to seek out their work. Mark Jenkin has made only a small handful of films but has already been proclaimed a master of his craft, precisely for his refusal to play by the rules of a medium he both respects and finds deeply flawed. This is made exceptionally clear in his latest offering, the wildly ambitious and unquestionably challenging Rose of Nevada, in which the director once again perches himself on the shores of an unnamed Cornish fishing village, observing the daily lives of a group of characters engaged in the simple act of survival. In this instance, we witness the return of the titular vessel, a fishing boat that was lost at sea decades before, but has suddenly resurfaced, still in impeccable condition and ready to brave the icy seas once again. The story is told through the eyes of Nick and Liam (although we begin to wonder whether those are their real names, this ambiguity becoming a major plot point midway through) as they leap at the opportunity to earn some additional income, not realising that this boat is shrouded in a sinister energy that is about to change their lives forever. A complex, disquieting blend of working-class drama and psychological horror, Rose of Nevada is another very strong offering from a director whose unique approach is truly unmatched.

There are so many angles from which we can start a discussion on the themes of Rose of Nevada, which is both part of its appeal and the reason it feels so deeply impenetrable. The many layers lend themselves to deep thought, and every interpretation is valid based on the ambiguity of the story and the director’s refusal to offer too much insight into the meaning behind certain choices. However, there are a few unmistakable qualities that help guide us through this film, making sense of most of its more comprehensible ideas. This is primarily a ghost story – a boat returns to the village that it used to serve before seemingly vanishing into thin air decades before, possessing a hypnotic quality that draws two men towards it, luring them onto its deck with the intention of making them victims of its otherworldly mystique. There’s a clear argument that Jenkin is commenting on the burden of history, and how every generation carries the weight of those which came before them, and that certain events tend to repeat themselves in strange and unsettling ways. It’s a strong tribute to the beautiful but enigmatic way of life of the Cornish people, who often resist the inevitability of modernity in favour of preserving a more simple existence, while also capturing the folklore that remains a cornerstone of their culture, building a fascinating mythology that evokes a bygone era in creative and daring ways.

Do not make any mistake based on the presence of recognisable stars George MacKay and Callum Turner, as Rose of Nevada is every bit as strange and unconventional as the director’s previous works. We can only imagine the two leads were drawn to this project based on their recent attempts to work with more notable auteurs, rather than it being a case of Jenkin attempting to make something more mainstream. While everyone will step into this film with the intention of penetrating its complex layers, we all inevitably surrender to the more abstract ideas, coming to realise that this is not a film designed for us to understand. The narrative is intriguing, but it’s ultimately secondary to the more formal elements that hold the film together; Rose of Nevada is a film in which the mood eclipses the story, becoming more of a sensory experience than a discursive one, at least in terms of its core themes. It’s not an easy feat to make a film in which the atmosphere is what guides it forward, but Jenkin has enough skill to accomplish this – the visual language he composes (with the grainy photography that once again makes the film look like it has been found locked away in a dust-covered archive, never before seen by an audience) complements the unsettling tone. Answers are not provided so much as they are implied, the audience is invited to give their own interpretation, but where we acknowledge that what we believe to be the deeper meaning may not necessarily be all that valid. Nothing quite makes sense in this film, but we can at least appreciate the audacity to create something so off-kilter and strange, it is nothing but utterly admirable, even at its most intentionally ambiguous. This all provides unwavering support for Jenkin as one of the true visionaries of his generation, as well as someone singularly uninterested in following any of the sacred conventions of a medium he’s both celebrating and dismantling.

As was the case with Bait and Enys Men, we can’t simply assess this film based on the themes on their own, but rather in collaboration with the complex mix of visuals and tone, which are in many ways far more vital than any narrative elements. It is certainly an acquired taste, a film in which no two interpretations or overall reactions are going to be the same – what one viewer may see as a pitch-black dark comedy, may be considered by another as a cosmic horror in the vein of David Lynch. Every perspective is valid solely because there isn’t a clear intention of what the director was aiming to achieve, at least in terms of the narrative complexities that define this film. It’s a deeply unsettling work, and one that doesn’t make itself easier to comprehend as it goes along, even for those who consider themselves well-equipped to handle the many layers situated at the heart of this film. It’s a testament to the challenges of looking towards the past and finding meaning in our collective history, which can be a daunting process. Brilliantly odd and exceptionally compelling, Rose of Nevada requires very little from the audience other than their trust, as well as the willingness to simply leap onto the director’s peculiar artistic wavelength, embracing the madness that surrounds this story and surrendering to a mood-driven existential drama that is as bewildering as it is strikingly beautiful.