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Imagine standing in a seaweed field, battered by wind, kissed by the ocean, surrounded by an overpowering quiet. Now, place yourself at its center. That’s what Nora Fingscheidt’s “The Outrun” evokes: an intimate and intimidating isolation where memories swell, hijacking your thoughts, with the sound of the ocean crashing against the wind as your only companion.
When Amy Liptrot (journalist by profession and co-writer of this script) penned her memoir, I doubt she anticipated how deeply her experiences of addiction, recovery, and self-reflection would reverberate into something so achingly cinematic. She likely understood, though, that her birthplace, Orkney, is one of the most visually striking landscapes yet underutilized in cinema.
Orkney—a remote archipelago of some 70 islands in the northernmost reaches of Scotland—is home to rare wildlife and even scarcer human life. It’s here that Rona (Liptrot’s on-screen counterpart) returns to recover from years of alcoholism. But what transforms this film from just another tale of addiction is how her immersion in the wild mirrors her internal trouble. Her raw poetic connection between the geographies of the body and the earth is nothing short of a revelation; it’s honest and roaring.
That said, this isn’t the film’s central theme, but it lingers with significance. It’s what sets this film apart from the well-trodden narratives of addicts and no-hopers. The interplay between Orkney’s untamed nature and Rona’s internal chaos redefines the isolation of remote living in contrast to disgraceful urban living, giving it fresh meaning and weight.
Director Nora Fingscheidt, no stranger to troubled female protagonists, previously gave us the nuanced portrayal of Benni, a feral, unruly 9-year-old in “System Crasher” (2019). Here, with “The Outrun,” she deftly shifts focus to finding solace within one’s own skin and life. With meticulous attention, she weaves in the psychological complexities and enduring effects of trauma. While it’s a rather translucent thread, it is considerate and punchy.
Rona’s approach to sobriety is refreshingly mature, grounded in a clear-eyed understanding of the consequences—both the emotional stagnation and the sometimes sparkless existence it entails. The film’s structure mirrors this experience, moving fluidly between the past and the present. This narrative choice echoes the “one day at a time” philosophy intrinsic to recovery. Saoirse Ronan, who plays Rona, brings multi-layered depth to the character. Her embodiment spans Rona’s various stages—hammered, broken, wiped out. Although I’m not necessarily a fan of hers, I had thought we’d already seen the full extent of her capabilities in Lady Bird.
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I’ve been clearly mistaken; Saoirse, here, has so many faces that speak right of the diversity of the moments; because an addict on the 4th ugly stray is not on the same fatal route as the free fall of the 20th time. She is such a rounded character with real flesh. Ronan manages to convey not just the physical toll of addiction but the painstaking emotional gravity of each relapse and recovery. There’s no need for heightened drama or artificial milestones to navigate us through time. We move seamlessly from raucous, alcohol-fueled nights to the stark isolation of sobriety.
Ronan’s performance reveals just how multifaceted her craft can be—her portrayal of Rona adds layers to an already complex character. Every movement, every subtle change in her demeanor tells us more than any descriptive verbal statement could. And, for once, a change in hair color is not a glaring metaphor but an understated reflection of where she is in her journey—an elegant detail rather than a loud signal.
Aside from the performance of the leading actress abreast of the well-written script, what truly makes “The Outrun” stand apart is how smoothly the film’s components—cinematography, sound design, and editing—work in perfect harmony with the story. Nothing feels overdone. It’s all in the restraint, the focus on experience over exposition. Not to mention that the film doesn’t succumb to romanticizing addiction or imposing a heavy-handed political message. Instead, it invites you to sink into its rhythm, allowing the visuals, sound, and emotions to envelop you naturally. The experience feels immersive without ever overstating its case. I believe no one in the theatre, along with me, checked the time for the 2 screening hours. How did they achieve such a visceral, breathtaking experience?
With this question in mind, I turned to Liptrot’s memoir, and the powering source in the film’s orchestration became clear. The narrative style, grounded in Liptrot’s clear-eyed storytelling, seems to have dictated the film’s pacing and tone. The raw honesty and lyricism of her prose have clearly informed every aspect of the adaptation. It’s no wonder her memoir is award-winning, and more followed.
