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Ondine
Ondine is that rare modern-day “fairy tale” that possesses a cautious but sincere faith in the genre itself. This sweet-natured film does not seek to deconstruct the form’s assumptions so much as quietly reaffirm them, insisting that placing one’s faith in the fantastical remains a viable, even noble response to the sadness of the world. Such sadness—not the storm clouds of grief so much as the overcast skies of melancholy—shadows the life of Syracuse (Colin Farrell), a fisherman from a small coastal Irish town. A recovering alcoholic still defined by his messy past (the townsfolk nickname him “Circus,” a taunting reminder of his drunken, clownish antics), Syracuse spends his days on his boat and tending to his daughter Annie (a radiant Alison Barry), who is largely wheelchair-bound due to kidney failure.
Out at sea, Syracuse pulls in his net to find a half-drowned and disoriented young woman inside. Ondine (Alicja Bachleda), as she calls herself, quickly comes to see Syracuse as a friend, and he obliges her with shelter and protection. Annie, however, thinks Ondine is a selkie, a folkloric half woman, half seal creature who can shed their slippery coats and can live on land as a human being for seven years. Syracuse himself begins to believe Annie after Ondine’s singing seemingly drives fish to his boat by the hundreds.
Is she really what they think she is? It’s a question that lingers throughout Ondine, though I was struck by how little it seemed to matter moment-to-moment. Writer-director Neil Jordan seems less concerned with the plot machinations surrounding Ondine’s identity than exploring the ways in which the tentative acceptance of magic can enliven daily existence. The film lingers on the warm, sisterly bonding between Ondine and Annie or the tentative sparks of romance that begin to flicker between Ondine and Syracuse, warmly capturing moments when the characters allow themselves to believe, just for a moment, in the happiness that extraordinary circumstances has placed in their lap. Farrell proves particularly adept at tracing Syracuse’s slightly bewildered acceptance of his own strange good fortune. His self-effacing turn is his strongest work in years, and provides an appealing counterweight to Bachleda’s intriguing mixture of ethereality and self-possession.
Jordan doesn’t forego reality for twee fantasy. The specter of desperation hangs over the characters, with alcohol an ever-present and tempting escape for Syracuse. (He attempts to combat his cravings through confessions to the local priest, played with amiable understatement by Stephen Rea.) Still, it’s a reality that Jordan filters through the forgiving prism of fable, crafting a milieu to be gently explored rather than rigorously interrogated. Working with the great cinematographer Christopher Doyle, Jordan imbues the film’s color palette with emerald greens and watery blues, evoking the sea’s constant presence and eerie, beautiful promise. The contrasts between the shadowy, cramped interiors of the town and the glittering expanse of the ocean become elegant shorthand for the way that Ondine’s effervescent spirit infuses Syracuse and Annie’s lives.
Ondine flounders a bit in its final third, rocked by a series of glum plot twists that only muddle the atmosphere of poignant calm. But for all their bombastic attempts at “clarification,” these last-minute developments have a surprisingly negligible effect on the film as a whole. Ultimately, Ondine gives us the happily-ever-after we expect, and does so largely on its own lovely, unassuming terms.
Matt Connolly
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