At one point in Rose of Nevada, a character asks, after some hesitation, if he might share a more serious reflection. The reply he gets is blunt: “If it doesn’t matter, don’t bother.” That line captures not only the film’s themes but also Jenkin’s approach to storytelling. He is not interested in conventional plotting or in explaining the rules he sets, but in creating a mood and letting texture and atmosphere carry the meaning. The result is a film that transports and immerses, while leaving its themes only half explored, sometimes even deliberately vague.
Such atmosphere is the reason alone for watching Rose of Nevada. Built through the analog texture of hand-processed 16mm, which gives the images the feel of a lost archive, and the post-synced sound that has become Jenkin’s trademark , that generates an otherworldly, ghostly quality due to the audio not always perfectly matching actors’ lips (a choice that makes perfect narrative sense). The director, who also wrote the film, composed the music, and served as both cinematographer and editor, captures above all else the feeling of something unearthed from another era. Its texture pulls us in, holding us to its mysteries even when we cannot fully grasp what is happening.
The mystery centers on the crew of three aboard the Rose of Nevada, who d, during a violent storm,re thrust back in time. When they return to shore, they find themselves not in the present but decades earlier, and the villagers treat them not as newcomers but as fishermen who, in their timeline, had vanished at sea. It is a premise that recalls the German series Dark, touched with the cosmic weight of Interstellar and framed in the eeriness of English folklore. However, the way it is told is purposefully vague, keeping audiences confused and questioning what it all means.
The film works best in its more straightforward first act, before the storm and time slip, when the emphasis is firmly on world building. This is where the film’s most memorable images appear: the widening of a hole in the roof, a visual explanation of how to cut fish, and the incredibly tense storm at sea that sends the crew back in time. Once that foundation is set and the more fantastical elements arrive, however, the film grows vague and soon starts to feel repetitive and unfulfilling. It is not interested in unraveling its mystery in a conventional way, but rather in using it as a metaphor for the life of the village, rooted in traditions and nostalgia and unable to evolve. At its core, it reflects Cornwall’s fishing communities caught between economic decline, lost livelihoods, and the weight of local memory. Yet the film grows satisfied in making this point, spending the rest of its running time circling back to that idea through the diverging ways the two main characters respond to their new reality.
The contrast between them is interesting and both actors handle it well. Callum Turner conveys his character’s gradual acceptance of this new reality, while George MacKay, sensational, brings a striking depth to his role (the actor truly does keep getting better and better). The problem is that the film leaves them adrift. Instead of allowing these gifted performers the space to anchor the story or offering more development of the villagers themselves, Jenkin keeps the focus narrow. The lack of meaningful interactions with others means the two leads carry the burden of shaping arcs from thin material, and when the narrative builds toward a pivotal confrontation, it lacks impact. The emotion Jenkin is reaching for is lost alongside his characters.
Visually, Rose of Nevada bears the marks of a fantastic film. I wish its aesthetics and atmosphere had been in service of a more focused and fully realized narrative.
This is part of Reviews On Reels TIFF 2025 Coverage. Due to the hectic rhythm of a film festival, it may be tweaked in the future.
Still courtesy of TIFF.