What happens when grief becomes a kind of art? That’s the question that haunts Learning to Breathe Under Water, a film that tries to balance tragedy with whimsy but ends up stumbling over its own emotional weight. Watching it, I couldn’t help but think about how we, as humans, often turn to absurdity to process the unbearable. The shark piercing a roof in Oxford—originally a political statement—becomes in this film a metaphor for how death defies logic. It’s a clever pivot, but one that feels half-baked, like a joke that’s been told too many times. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the film attempts to use that absurdity as a lens to examine a father and son’s relationship after loss, yet it never quite finds the right rhythm between humor and heartbreak.
Let’s talk about the shark itself. The real-life sculpture in Headington was meant to protest nuclear war, but here, it’s repurposed as a literal and metaphorical weight on the protagonist’s psyche. Rory Kinnear’s character, Peter, builds a metal shark through his son’s bedroom ceiling—a visual gag that’s also a profound symbol. I find it interesting how the film leans into this absurdity without ever fully unpacking it. It’s as if the writers are afraid to let the grief sit for too long, which is a common trap in modern storytelling. We’re conditioned to want resolution, but grief doesn’t work that way. The shark becomes a kind of Rorschach test for the audience: what does it mean for a man to literally let a predator consume his home? The answer, I think, is that he’s drowning in his own sorrow, and the shark is just the thing that makes it visible.
Now, let’s dissect the characters. Kinnear’s performance is a masterclass in restraint. He plays Peter as a man who’s barely holding it together, his emotions simmering just below the surface. There’s a scene where he plays his late wife’s piano and starts crying silently that gutted me. It’s a moment that feels raw and unfiltered, which is why it stands out in a film that otherwise feels like it’s tiptoeing around its own emotions. But here’s the thing: Kinnear is criminally underused in cinema, and this film proves he’s capable of carrying a lead role with grace. Why do we keep casting him as the oddball sidekick instead of the center of the story? It’s a question that makes me wonder about the industry’s biases toward actors who don’t fit the ‘leading man’ mold.
The film’s script, however, is a different story. Richard Brabin’s dialogue has moments of brilliance—especially in the interactions between Peter’s son Leo and the Bulgarian au pair Anya, played by Maria Bakalova. Leo’s deadpan delivery and his neurodivergent traits are handled with care, which is a rare and welcome touch. But the narrative sags in the second half, veering into melodrama with a manufactured conflict between Anya and Peter. It’s a classic case of writers trying too hard to force emotional beats, which only highlights the film’s lack of confidence. What many people don’t realize is that the real tragedy here isn’t the conflict itself—it’s that the film seems to lose its way when it should be at its most vulnerable.
And then there’s the production design. The film’s setting—a cluttered, chaotic home that mirrors Peter’s mental state—is a visual triumph. The colors shift subtly to reflect his emotional journey, and the use of stop-motion animation to depict Leo’s inner world adds a layer of whimsy that’s both charming and unsettling. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest stories, there’s room for beauty. Yet, I can’t help but wonder if the film’s reliance on visual metaphors distracts from the core emotional truth it’s trying to convey. Sometimes, the simplest moments—like a father and son sharing a meal or a quiet moment of connection—are the most powerful. This film, unfortunately, often misses that mark.
In the end, Learning to Breathe Under Water feels like a missed opportunity. It has the ingredients for something truly special: a poignant exploration of grief, a stellar performance from Kinnear, and a creative visual style. But it’s held back by a script that’s too eager to please and a direction that lacks the nuance to balance its tonal shifts. What this really suggests is that grief, like art, is messy and unpredictable. Maybe that’s exactly what the filmmakers were trying to capture—but if they did, they didn’t quite show it to us. I left the film thinking about the shark still sticking out of that ceiling, a reminder that sometimes, we’re all just trying to breathe under water, even when the current pulls us under.
