The Shark on the Roof: When Grief Meets Whimsy
There’s something undeniably captivating about a shark crashing through a roof. It’s absurd, it’s jarring, and yet, it sticks with you. That’s the image at the heart of Learning to Breathe Under Water, a film that attempts to blend grief, humor, and a touch of the surreal. But does it succeed? Personally, I think it’s a mixed bag—a film that sparkles in moments but ultimately drowns in its own ambition.
The premise is intriguing: a bereaved father, Peter (Rory Kinnear), erects a metal shark sculpture through his roof, piercing his son Leo’s bedroom ceiling. It’s a metaphor, of course—a clumsy, oversized one, much like grief itself. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the film tries to balance the weight of loss with the whimsy of a child’s perspective. Leo, played by Ezra Carlisle, is a serious, literal-minded boy, possibly neurodivergent, whose deadpan humor provides some of the film’s brightest moments. When he insists that ‘it has to be food’ in response to a question about meals, it’s a small, perfect snapshot of his worldview.
But here’s where things get tricky. The film’s tone feels like a tug-of-war between Richard Brabin’s script and Rebekah Fortune’s direction. Brabin’s dialogue is sharp, especially through Leo’s lens, but the narrative loses steam halfway through. Fortune, meanwhile, seems to lean into the sentimentality, which, in my opinion, undermines the film’s early promise. The introduction of Maria Bakalova’s character, Anya, a Bulgarian au pair, feels like a plot device rather than a fully realized person. Her conflict with Peter is manufactured, and the resolution is as predictable as it is unsatisfying.
What many people don’t realize is how difficult it is to sustain a serio-comedy. It’s a tightrope walk, and Learning to Breathe Under Water stumbles more than once. The stop-motion animations that peek into Leo’s mind are delightful, reminiscent of Paul King’s early work, but they feel underutilized. If you take a step back and think about it, the film’s best moments are its smallest—Kinnear’s understated performance, the production design that reflects Peter’s mental state through clutter and color.
Speaking of Kinnear, he’s the film’s saving grace. His portrayal of a man barely holding it together is a masterclass in restraint. The scene where he plays his late wife’s piano and breaks down silently is gut-wrenching. It’s a reminder that Kinnear is one of the most underappreciated actors working today. Why he isn’t given more leading roles is a mystery to me.
But even Kinnear can’t rescue the film from its own inconsistencies. The shark, meant to symbolize the absurdity of death, feels more like a gimmick than a profound statement. This raises a deeper question: Can grief ever be truly captured through whimsy? Or does it always risk trivializing the pain?
From my perspective, the film’s greatest strength—and weakness—is its ambition. It wants to be a heartfelt exploration of loss, a quirky comedy, and a visual feast all at once. But in trying to do too much, it ends up doing too little. The production design, overseen by May Davies, is impeccable, but it can’t compensate for the narrative’s shortcomings.
A detail that I find especially interesting is how the film uses space. Most of the action takes place inside Peter and Leo’s home, a cluttered, chaotic environment that mirrors their emotional state. The clutter ebbs and flows, much like their grief, but it’s a metaphor that feels heavy-handed at times.
If there’s one thing this film gets right, it’s the portrayal of a father-son relationship navigating loss. Leo’s literal approach to the world forces Peter to confront his own pain in ways he wouldn’t otherwise. But even this dynamic feels underdeveloped, overshadowed by the film’s tonal inconsistencies.
What this really suggests is that Learning to Breathe Under Water is a film of missed opportunities. It has all the ingredients for something special—a talented cast, a unique premise, and moments of genuine brilliance. But it never quite comes together. In the end, it’s like the shark on the roof: striking, but ultimately out of place.
So, is it worth watching? Personally, I’d say yes, if only for Kinnear’s performance and the film’s occasional flashes of brilliance. But don’t go in expecting a masterpiece. It’s a film that swims in circles, never quite reaching the depths it aims for. And sometimes, that’s just how art goes—ambitious, flawed, and unforgettable in its own peculiar way.
