Filmmaking as a medium to heal and uncover memories buried in the subconscious continues to be an element of film that speaks to me.
Watching filmmaker Sophy Romvari direct a film about a character making a film creates a meta experience that exposes a vulnerability. Without fail, films that follow this theme continue to devastate viewers and force them to be as introspective as the filmmaker. Aftersun, directed by Charlotte Wells, explores a father-daughter relationship through the eyes of a vulnerable but loving daughter. While Sentimental Value does the same in a father, failing to connect and reconcile with his daughter. Both build a time capsule of memory, exploring how hindsight can alter the way this is viewed. In many cases, for complex familial relationships, recording may be the only way to have the uncomfortable conversations out loud, which Blue Heron (2025) echoes brilliantly.
Romvari’s feature-length debut film unveils a solemn tale of a family trying to navigate their son, Jeremy, who presents behavioural and mental difficulties. Any attempt to find a solution is shut in their face by the revolving door of authority figures and experts. Answers are sparse, to the point where it becomes laughable to the parents. The first act presents a focus on nature, a perfect reflection of how real and confusing this situation is for the family. The serenity and escapism of nature contrasted with the unknown complexity it holds. Life, growth, distance, independence. Jeremy observes a documentary about a blue Heron discussing the gradual separation and independence from their flock. This phenomenon can be a beautiful part of life, except when such a young child feels entrapped and misunderstood — removing any autonomy. Scenes focused on Jeremy’s landscape, small in the grand scheme of life, were memorable and powerful. Particularly alone, still and quiet. The character is established beautifully without many words, and there’s already an attachment built full of sympathy.
Blue Heron is narrated through the lens of Sasha, the younger sister, who shares her experience watching the family adjust. I’ve always felt that daughters, especially in immigrant families, carry the family weight on their shoulders. Migrating as a Hungarian family to Canada in the 90s would have had its own difficulties, usually shielded as much as possible to create a dream move for the children – the nature sequences representing a world built for the children where life is peace and play. Even being younger than her brother, Sasha seemed ever so observant and aware of the family difficulties, yet her youth prevented her from having a say or intervening. This stark contrast is shown when she continues to sleep beside her parents despite them thinking she’s too old for this. Yet when things go wrong, she’s always observant, and the film catches her glances so subtly it makes your heart sink.
One thing about this film that clicked, but also sometimes created a disconnection, was the realism. It felt like real-life being was being observed. The framing subtly often overlooks the family members behind doors and walls. Characters can be heard talking but not seen, reflecting the viewpoint of a child who is not meant to know it all. Its focus on the family living daily life and exploring their difficulties was essential to understanding how severe and strenuous the balance of loving a child but dealing with emotional outbursts and behaviours would take a toll on these parents. Regardless of this turbulence in their lives, their dad found a chance to document the beauty of this family, an action that would later be integral to Sasha’s future.
A time jump means we get to explore adult Sasha, a filmmaker exploring how her brother was essentially failed. An important scene centred around a focus group was great informatively, blurring the line between feature and documentary. It created a greater understanding of Jeremy’s potential condition and how time means that he could have been better supported now in comparison to the 90s, where there was a lack of knowledge. However, it did run on for a bit too long. Though important, it slowed the pace down significantly. A film like this requires a slow pace, but it occasionally takes you away from these characters, such as the daughter learning and also reflecting. Instead of centring these professionals, how does Sasha take on the weight of this information as she did as a young girl?
Despite this, the film manages to devastate you completely by subverting time. It touches on a thought pondered by many experiencing some sort of trauma: how would I react as my adult self in those situations? What if I could speak to my younger self? Though devastating, it was almost healing. Once the film does this, it almost flips a switch, and the film moves you significantly. It makes you want to burst into tears for all the pain this family has endured and how, looking back, if only things could have been done differently. Romvari’s delivery of this shift is subtle, not engineered for shock factor but almost a therapy session on screen. The family no longer spend their time in nature but indoors. Trying to get through to their son but to no success. However, looking back now, from an adult perspective, there are things she might have missed. The countless conversations her parents had, the life her brother had of his own. The archival footage that’s embedded in this final act carries a lot of weight and works really well in creating that informal conversation between the characters’ past selves, a testament to how personal and intentional this film is in every detail.
Blue Heron explores memory in a way individuals can’t do, reflecting its ever-changing nature but, more importantly, the reconciliation of guilt you can’t control and long-standing grief.
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