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The Ballad of Wallis Island doesn't announce itself with big moments or bold storytelling. It's quiet, patient, and deeply observant - a film more interested in the spaces between people than in anything they actually say.

There's a kind of magic here, but not the wand-waving kind. It's in the setting - a bleak and beautiful island where the skies rarely clear and everything seems to echo with a quiet ache. The pacing is unhurried, reflective. Whether that's a nod to the rhythms of island life or just the film's own confidence, it works.

At its center are four characters, each living out a different kind of isolation. Some are painfully aware of their loneliness, others seem almost comfortable in it. A few are fooling themselves. The film never spells any of this out - it just lets you watch as these people shift slightly in each other's orbit. Not everyone connects. But the fact that some try is enough to carry the film's emotional weight.

Carrie Mulligan's performance anchors the tone beautifully. Her presence softens the tension, adds a sense of stillness that feels earned. When she's offscreen, the unease creeps back in.

The visuals are restrained but rich - mostly grey tones, soft light, and subdued color. There's one stained glass window that quietly stands out, like a whisper of potential or beauty that still exists in spite of everything. That kind of detail - quiet but pointed - is everywhere if you're paying attention.

Sound design is minimal, and the music is woven in like a supporting texture rather than a highlight. It never intrudes. Instead, it shades scenes gently, reminiscent of the mood you'd find in an Alexi Murdoch track - soulful and subtle, but never sentimental.

The film doesn't chase resolution. It builds pressure and lets it release in small, human ways. There's no grand catharsis, just a few gestures that suggest healing is possible - even if it's slow, partial, and silent.

I didn't think I was going to like Echo Valley. Early on, it felt like yet another somber character study about a sad, emotionally walled-off woman trudging through grief. I found myself getting impatient with Julianne Moore's character-too quiet, too clenched, too stuck. My gut reaction was, "Okay, we get it. You're broken. Move on already."

But by the time the credits rolled, I realized: that was the point.

What starts as a slow-burn drama about loss and trauma quietly transforms into a nuanced meditation on the seductive comfort of victimhood-and what it costs to escape it. Julianne Moore gives a tightly coiled performance, full of quiet anguish and understated strength. She doesn't play a victim so much as a woman who's learned to survive by keeping her pain close, and her joy at arm's length.

Domhnall Gleeson is chilling in his restraint, embodying what happens when you let victimhood rot into violence and detachment. And Kyle MacLachlan-who I assumed would be a major player when he appeared-gets barely two minutes of screen time. But those two minutes are pivotal. His character, with quiet stoicism and no shortage of reluctance, models what it looks like to move on. He becomes the counterpoint to Moore's emotional limbo-a living example of what it means to leave the valley, metaphorically and literally.

Sydney Sweeney, on the other hand, feels a bit too familiar in her role. While she hits the marks emotionally, the character felt too close to her performances in The White Lotus and other recent roles: another whiny, self-absorbed, emotionally combustible young woman who seems to confuse chaos with depth. At this point, it's less a character than a brand. She's talented, no question, but here, she's recycling.

Then there's Fiona Shaw-maybe the film's secret weapon. As the loyal friend and emotional ballast, she plays the role that holds everything together. She's not a moral compass in the preachy sense-she's just present, constant, human. The final montage (which oddly echoes the vibe of a heist movie epilogue) showcases Shaw's quiet complicity and grace. She doesn't need big speeches-she shows up. Always. And that's what makes her character land so well.

By the end, I didn't just feel satisfied-I felt subtly re-educated. Echo Valley asks its audience to do something rare these days: sit with discomfort, and reconsider their snap judgments. It's not flashy, it's not loud, but it lingers. It's a film about people trapped in their own narratives, and what it takes to quietly write a new one.

I came in annoyed. I left impressed.

At first glance, Friendship plays like it's gearing up to be a quirky indie comedy - awkward banter, strained smiles, and just enough charm to make you think you're in for a sad-sack buddy flick with heart. But then something shifts. Slowly. Quietly. And by the time the third act rolls around, you realize you're not watching a comedy at all. You're watching a slow-motion car wreck of emotional codependence and social decay - and you're in the passenger seat.

The film's real trick (and possibly its curse) is how it messes with your sympathy. I started off feeling sorry for Robinson's character - lonely, vulnerable, maybe a little pathetic. But as the story peeled back layers, that pity curdled into discomfort. Then resentment. Then something colder. And yet, by the end, I still wasn't sure if I hated him or just hated how much of him I recognized.

That emotional whiplash is probably the movie's greatest strength - and maybe its biggest obstacle. This is not a film that wants you to feel good. It wants you to squirm. It wants you to sit in the tension between wanting to help someone and realizing you might be feeding the very dysfunction you're trying to escape. That's powerful. It's also exhausting.

The writing is sharp, but it doesn't hold your hand. The pacing is deliberate (read: slow), the tone slippery, and the morality murky. You can tell this film wants to be part of the post-Anora wave - intimate, raw, and morally complex - but it lacks Anora's clarity and brutal elegance. Instead, Friendship smudges the lines until everything feels a little too fuzzy to fully land.

If Friendship is about anything, it might be this: the strange, sad reasons we keep toxic people in our lives. Loneliness. Obligation. Habit. Fear of what comes after letting go. It's a film that doesn't provide answers - just a long, uncomfortable mirror.

I give it a 6.5 out of 10. It's well-made. It's interesting. It hits hard. But it also left me more overwrought than enlightened. There's value in that, sure - but I'm not in a hurry to go through it again.