A moody, slow-burning neo-noir that works best when it says nothing at all, Islands is the kind of film that invites you to lean in and listen to the silence. Sam Riley gives a superb, quietly magnetic performance — all glances, pauses, and half-finished thoughts. You can feel him thinking even when he isn’t speaking, which is most of the time.
Working with Jan Ole Gerster, Riley stripped away much of the dialogue — and it pays off. Steeped in isolation and unspoken tension, the quiet stretches pull you in, forcing you to read the spaces between words. It’s a bold, patient approach that makes the film feel lived-in rather than staged — more like you’ve wandered into someone’s private reckoning.
The story unfolds like a mirage — mysterious, sun-bleached, and just out of reach. It lingers more than it lands — which is part of its charm. Islands may not rush to explain itself, yet it has a way of holding you fast — a film that breathes in silence and leaves its echoes behind.