The Outrun

Directed by Nora Fingscheidt (2024) 

Review by Emily Zobel Marshall 

Based on a memoir by Amy Liptrot and directed by Nora Fingscheidt, The Outrun is, for the most part, an engrossing film. Drawn from Liptrot’s own struggles with alcoholism and subsequent recovery in the Orkney islands, where she grew up, it is a searingly honest portrayal of the corrosive effects of drink and the healing power of the natural world. Rona, our protagonist, is played by Saoirse Ronan – apparently so convincingly that Amy Liptrot’s own toddler pointed at the screen and shouted ‘Mummy’ when he saw one of the scenes from the film; ‘my essence had been recreated authentically enough to fool my child and to confuse and thrill me,’ Liptrot recently wrote (Liptrot, The Guardian, 22 Sept 2024). 

The film starts with the Scottish legend of the selkie, souls lost at sea who have returned as seals. They can shape-shift into a human form, sometimes dancing on the shores in the moonlight, but if seen by other humans, they can never return to the waves. Trapped on land, selkies are forever restless and discontent. Life on earth for Rona is also steeped in sadness; ‘I can’t be happy sober,’ she tells us.   

The film builds slowly – so slowly, in fact, I found myself a little wearied by the many long, pensive, lingering shots of Rona’s inscrutable face in profile as she looked out to sea, searchingly. A third of the way through the film, however, the plot picks up a-pace and has the viewer firmly in its grip. 

Saoirse Ronan proves herself to be an actress of astounding skill and talent, but her character remains rather mysterious and unreachable. A soundtrack of pumping house and electro (often played through Rona’s own headphones) is juxtaposed with the wind-swept, breathtakingly beautiful landscapes and seascapes of Orkney. The soundtrack (and the headphones) create a barrier between any direct engagement with the scenes of the natural world, while depictions of London life are captured through a series of dizzying, fragmented filming techniques and camera angles, which enhance Rona’s own disintegration. For Rona, London life is one of heavy drinking, of waking up battered and bruised, of disturbing, drink-related violence, accidents and abuse. Her addiction drives her kind, long-suffering boyfriend and friends away as she falls more deeply into its abyss. We begin to understand that the sadness in Rona’s heart is rooted in her father’s terrible battles with his mental health. After many failed attempts at staying sober, she decides to rent a tiny cottage on Papay, the smallest inhabited island in Orkney.

On Papay, Rona begins to connect with herself. She spends her days walking the isolated coastline, collecting seaweed and bringing samples home to draw. Moments of tender human connection are movingly captured; an elderly man recognises her as a fellow recovering alcoholic and gently asks her how long she has been sober, sharing his own bitter-sweet story. Rona dances to folk music at the village social and her movements become lighter, her face more open – we sense the warmth and camaraderie of the sixty inhabitants on Papay are helping to repair her heart as she continues to stay sober and becomes attuned to rhythms of the island. What did seem to be missing, for me, was any commentary on writing during her time in self-imposed exile; Liptrot’s story is autobiographical – we do see Rona draw, but why doesn’t she pick up a pen and write at any point?  

As a keen cold-water swimmer myself, I was particularly drawn to Rona’s relationship to the water. Back on the west cost of Orkney, Rona moodily watches her mother enjoying a cold-water swim with her Bible-reading friends. They try to encourage her into the water, which she resists wholeheartedly. Alone on Papay, Rona takes off her shoes and tests the water – wincing in pain at the icy temperature, but she doesn’t commit. When she is unable to return to the main island on Christmas day due to bad weather, Rona finally decides to swim alone in the ocean.  She whoops and screams into the waves, calling out to the seals, who sing back to her. This is the first time we truly see her smile. That evening she has a solo rave in her cottage, dancing wildly through its cramped rooms – her new self emerges, resurrected through her communion with water.  

When Rona’s mother finally does come and visit Papay, they swim in the sea together. Rona bakes bread and tells her mum that she wants to study for a PhD focused on the benefits of seaweed. Her eyes are bright and her skin shines; she can start to imagine a fulfilling and sober future. Like the selkie returning to the sea, the ocean has brought her back to herself.