James Griffiths’ The Ballad of Wallis Island is a film that thrives in the space between nostalgia and reinvention, memory and acceptance. While its premise—a fractured folk-rock duo reluctantly reuniting—invites comparisons to familiar narratives of artistic reconciliation, the film distinguishes itself through its understated charm, its keenly observed character dynamics, and a script that deftly navigates sentimentality without succumbing to saccharine indulgence. Anchored by quietly expressive performances from Tom Basden, Tim Key, and Carey Mulligan, Griffiths’ film captures the delicate balance between longing for what was and making peace with what remains.

Set against the picturesque backdrop of the fictional Wallis Island—a windswept coastal town in Wales—the narrative follows Herb McGwyer (Basden), a once-revered musician who arrives for what he believes to be a lucrative yet low-stakes acoustic gig. Herb’s initial exasperation is palpable, exacerbated by the lack of basic amenities (including a harbor) and the relentless cheer of his eccentric host, Charles (Key). Their odd-couple dynamic is immediately apparent: Herb, world-weary and guarded, finds little patience for Charles’ ebullient energy, his fondness for groan-inducing wordplay, and his unabashed enthusiasm for McGwyer Mortimer, the folk-rock duo whose dissolution has left an indelible mark on both men—albeit for vastly different reasons.

Charles, a widower and two-time National Lottery winner, is an unapologetic superfan of McGwyer Mortimer. His devotion, however, extends beyond mere admiration; the music serves as a conduit to his past, a means of preserving the memory of his late wife. The extent of his reverence is revealed when it becomes clear that the concert is not merely a financial transaction for Herb—it is an orchestrated reunion, with Nell Mortimer (Mulligan) arriving as an unexpected participant. Charles has not only brought the former creative and romantic partners back together; he has done so for an audience of one.

One of the film’s strengths lies in its ability to weave the personal and the performative, using music as both a narrative device and an emotional touchstone. The compositions, penned by Basden, are not simply markers of a bygone era but deeply embedded within the characters’ histories. When Herb and Nell reluctantly perform together for the first time in nearly a decade, the effect is immediate. Their harmonies, once effortless, now carry the weight of their estrangement, resonating with a poignancy that transcends mere nostalgia. The moment is beautifully underplayed, punctuated by Charles’ rare silence—a brief yet deeply felt acknowledgment of the emotional terrain being navigated.

Herb, despite his cynicism, is not immune to the music’s pull. While he has remained within the industry, adapting to commercial demands and seeking relevance through calculated collaborations, Nell has stepped away entirely, finding solace in a life of domestic simplicity in Portland, Oregon. Their divergent paths underscore the film’s central thematic concern: the tension between artistic evolution and the inescapable pull of the past. Herb’s resistance to revisiting McGwyer Mortimer’s catalogue is not merely professional reluctance—it is an act of self-preservation. For Nell, however, the past is something to be acknowledged rather than avoided, and her calm, measured demeanor provides a striking contrast to Herb’s brittle defensiveness.

Basden and Key, whose long-standing comedic collaboration informs their on-screen chemistry, bring depth and nuance to their roles. Basden’s portrayal of Herb is layered with quiet resentment, his deadpan delivery masking a man grappling with the compromises he has made. Key, in turn, imbues Charles with an affable persistence that never veers into caricature. Beneath his relentless optimism lies a man acutely aware of his own loneliness, using humor as both armor and bridge. Their dynamic is the heart of the film—what begins as an antagonistic mismatch gradually unfolds into a relationship built on mutual, if begrudging, understanding.

Mulligan, in a supporting role, provides a grounding presence. Her portrayal of Nell is imbued with a quiet strength, eschewing melodrama in favor of subtle, lived-in authenticity. There is a quiet steeliness to her performance, particularly in her interactions with Herb. She does not seek resolution in the form of rekindled romance or artistic revival; rather, she approaches the situation with the clarity of someone who has made peace with what was, even if echoes of the past remain.

Sian Clifford’s Amanda, the island’s shopkeeper and an understated romantic interest for Charles, provides an additional layer of warmth and humor. Clifford, known for her acerbic wit in Fleabag, delivers a performance that is equal parts dryly amusing and endearingly kind, offering a counterpoint to the film’s more melancholic undertones.

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Griffiths, an accomplished television director, approaches the material with a light but assured touch. He allows scenes to breathe, granting his actors the space to inhabit their characters fully. The film’s pacing is deliberately unhurried, mirroring the rhythms of island life and the gradual thawing of relationships.

Cinematographer G. Magni Ágústsson captures the rugged beauty of the setting without resorting to picturesque indulgence. The island is not merely a backdrop but an active participant in the narrative, its isolation mirroring the emotional distances the characters must traverse. The muted color palette, punctuated by moments of warmth in candlelit interiors and golden-hour reflections, reinforces the film’s themes of memory and transition.

What sets The Ballad of Wallis Island apart from similar narratives is its refusal to adhere to conventional resolution. There is no grand reconciliation, no triumphant return to the stage, no sweeping romantic catharsis. Instead, Griffiths and his writers embrace a quieter, more nuanced approach, one that acknowledges the complexities of moving forward while honoring the past.

Music, in the end, is not simply about performance—it is about connection. For Herb and Nell, it is a means of confronting wounds both old and new; for Charles, it is a lifeline, a bridge between what was and what might still be. And for the audience, it is a reminder that while time may erode certain things, the echoes of what once mattered have a way of lingering, reshaping themselves into something new.

While The Ballad of Wallis Island does not break new ground, it does not need to. Its strength lies in its restraint, its ability to find depth in the quiet spaces between words and melodies. For those willing to meet it on its own terms, it is a film of gentle pleasures and unexpected resonance—a song worth hearing, even if it is sung in a minor key.

RATING: ★★★★☆

Title: The Ballad of Wallis Island

Festival Section: Sundance (Premieres)

Distributor: Focus Features

Director: James Griffiths

Screenwriters: Tom Basden, Tim Key

Cast: Tom Basden, Tim Key, Carey Mulligan, Sian Clifford, Akemnji Ndifornyen

Running Time: 1 hr 39 mins