Editor's Note: This review was originally published on September 7, 2025, at the Toronto International Film Festival. 1-2 Special will release the film in New York City on Friday, June 19, with additional releases to follow.
No one else does what Mark Jenkin does. Over three feature films, the Cornish director has established himself as a unique auteur, and his new film, Nevada Rose, is in many ways simply a continuation of the same. His distinctive avant-garde, genre-defying style, at least from the outside, is practically irresistible to any cult film buff. His latest work, shot on 16mm film with sound recorded in post-production, is a monotonous folk tale full of thoughts, with a sound mix so loud that my ears were ringing for four hours afterward.
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At every screening of his I've attended, there have been audience members who've walked out, usually after exactly 10 minutes, realizing that everything is just going to be "just like that." It's funny, but understandable; in an era when commodity fetishism has turned analog, low-budget cinema into something to aspire to, Jenkin hasn't compromised for the sake of accessibility. For him, this isn't a commercially advantageous aesthetic; it's the essence of his work, like a callus on film stock. It's as if he makes films in Cornwall with a stable of artists not to establish a personal brand, but because nowhere else could he find better rust, better moss, or a stronger wind. He doesn't use the frenetic intensity of Jerzy Skolimowski or Takashi Ito as the basis for his work; these are the fundamental principles of his cinematic language.
«"Nevada Rose" is his most twisted film, though that's a harsh assessment. The story could easily be a classic Twilight Zone episode. Thirty years ago, a fishing vessel of the same name vanished after setting sail without a crew. With it, the economy of an entire coastal town vanished, and the sole surviving sailor ashore threw himself off a cliff. Now, the vessel has magically reappeared in a dilapidated harbor. Two men—a drunk named Liam, played by Callum Turner, and a family man named Nick, played by George MacKay—unaware of the vessel's past, are hired by the families of the deceased crew members to take it back to sea. Upon their return, they find themselves in the past, assuming the roles of the two men who disappeared earlier.
Though the narrative is succinct, it serves as an excellent framework for Jenkin. For the first time, he's created a feature-length film that doesn't drag or drag, trying to justify its length. The methodical cacophony of the ship and the temporal collapse of the city clarify its premise. Liam, once aimless and homeless, quickly finds meaning in this game of husband and father. Nick, desperate to return to the present, avoids his loving parents and brother, who beg for comfort. The extent to which anyone else is aware of the time loop remains unclear; the ship's captain is an elderly man who doesn't remember his name, and it's occasionally implied that the city has deliberately locked these men away.
This sense of spiritual imprisonment may have another explanation. When a storm tears a net, a dozen or so dockworkers rush ashore to mend it. When Nick, overcome with terror, asks why they're all so eager, his so-called brother shouts, "Because we're a community!" as if it were a threat. The captain says, "For every man at sea, there are five at home counting on you." It's not just the spirit of these men that is being exploited; their labor is also being exploited. Nick and Liam lose not only their future, but also their identity. They resign themselves to a life in which they are always, in one way or another, working.
At the film's opening, the city is deindustrialized and haunted. In the 1990s, videos about computer chips and global warming serve as oracles. "It's not too late," proclaims one such advertisement. This isn't just a story of grief and memory; it's a story of how the world sacrifices our future and ourselves in pursuit of some pre-sinful, conservative ideal. The subtle revelation of a time-warped quasi-incest between Liam and the girl he's raising as his own is one of many signs that this world is deeply ill.
It is here that Jenkin's obsession with the textures of his own works emerges, revealing their purpose. More than in his previous works, he emphasizes the dissonance between subject matter and form. This is a film shot using techniques nearly a century old, interspersed with contemporary pop songs and iPhones. When we see the city for the second time, the camera lingers on outdated technology, jukeboxes, old CCTV cameras, and trucks with manual transmissions. It would be unfair to say that this film isn't fascinated by its own techniques, but it is certainly the least prone to excessive pretentiousness. Jenkin questions our relationship to objects of nostalgia and how we recall the textures of history throughout our lives.
Yet none of this would work if it weren't captivatingly engaging and engaging. There's something ominous about the atmosphere of Nevada Rose, which simultaneously transports the viewer to another world and creates a sense of coziness. The viewer becomes accustomed to the deafening sound of fish falling to the floor or the peeling paint on the ice valve. Ominous shots of fish innards explode into compositional lines artfully woven into the metal beams of the dock. The supposedly low-budget special effects create a real spectacle; I have no idea how they managed to pull off a simple shot of George MacKay's face watching the approaching storm. This film places a greater emphasis on artificial materials than his previous work, though that doesn't mean it lacks stunning landscapes or his iconic close-ups of shimmering pores on the film.
Mackay and Turner are both superb, two movie stars who seem perfectly comfortable being asked to move with genuine brutality. The intrusion of these two men takes on an almost metatextual quality, two celebrities caught up in a regional experimental tradition. The work's self-reflexive qualities extend further, and the film can certainly be seen as a statement on the limits and possibilities of a completely analog and backward-looking practice. But Nevada Rose is too slippery to be fully defined. I would have liked to see Liam's newfound purpose given as much space as Nick's desperate attempts to escape the city, though in a way that would have meant an entirely different film. One could imagine the same story told by a dozen people, each with different accents and minor post-production tweaks. In this sense, Nevada Rose is like a folk tale. It's the kind of film I'd expect a completely different ending every time I saw it.
«"Nevada Rose" doesn't eschew or conceal any of Jenkins' signature features, so it's unlikely to convert agnostics. But for dedicated fans and the curious, this work stands out for its hypnotically perfect form and genuine depth.
Rating: B+
The film "Rose of Nevada" premiered at the 2025 Toronto International Film Festival.
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