Little Fish (2021)

Little Fish is the rare sci-fi romance that uses its premise not for spectacle, but for a quiet, devastating intimacy—an end-of-the-world story told in glances, routines, and the fragile architecture of shared memory. Olivia Cooke and Jack O’Connell give performances so lived-in and tender you feel like you’re eavesdropping on a real relationship, making every small moment land with emotional weight. The film’s tone is gentle and aching rather than melodramatic, with sensitive direction and luminous cinematography that turns ordinary spaces into places haunted by love. If you prefer your science fiction loud and plot-driven, this may feel too hushed, but if you want something poignant and stirring about what we hold onto—and what can slip away—it’s deeply worth your time.

Little Fish is aiming for a quiet, intimate sci-fi romance where the apocalypse is less about spectacle and more about what it does to two people trying to stay connected. When it works, it’s tender, thoughtfully acted, and genuinely interested in the fragility of memory and commitment. But if you’re expecting a sharp plot, big emotional crescendos, or a cathartic gut-punch, you may find it sluggish, a bit lugubrious, and occasionally unfocused—like it’s circling its themes rather than landing them. This is best for viewers who like slow, moody relationship dramas and don’t mind a story that leaves some grief and answers intentionally unresolved.