Little Fish

Imagine forgetting how to drive while you're mid-commute on a busy highway, or suddenly realizing you've forgotten how to breathe. In Little Fish, a global pandemic isn't defined by a cough or a fever, but by the "Neuroinflammatory Affliction" (NIA)—a virus that deletes memories. Some people lose decades in a heartbeat; others lose the last five minutes. It’s a terrifying conceit that director Chad Hartigan turns into something achingly quiet and personal. I watched this for the first time on my laptop while my neighbor was power-washing their driveway, and the constant, mindless hum outside weirdly matched the low-level anxiety thrumming through every frame of this film.

A Global Crisis That Hits Close to Home

Released in early 2021, Little Fish is perhaps the most unfortunate victim of "bad timing" in recent cinema history. It was filmed before COVID-19 existed, yet it landed in theaters (the few that were open) and on VOD right when the world was reeling from actual masks, actual isolation, and an actual global health crisis. Watching it now, it feels like a ghost of our own recent past. It captures that specific brand of contemporary dread—the feeling that the world you knew is dissolving and there isn't a single thing you can do to stop the erosion.

The film follows Emma, played with a brittle, haunting vulnerability by Olivia Cooke, and Jude, portrayed by Jack O'Connell with a rugged tenderness that eventually gives way to a devastating vacancy. They are young, deeply in love, and living in a Seattle that is slowly grinding to a halt. As NIA spreads, we see the chaos in the background: a marathon runner who forgets why he’s running and just stops; a pilot who forgets how to land. But Hartigan wisely keeps the camera focused on the apartment, the local vet clinic where Emma works, and the small, domestic anchors that define a relationship.

The Architecture of a Fading Romance

What makes Little Fish stand out in the crowded "sad indie romance" genre is its structure. The screenplay by Mattson Tomlin (who went on to work on The Batman) mimics the disease itself. The timeline is fractured. We jump from the early days of Emma and Jude’s courtship—meeting over a stray dog, the glow of a first date—to the cold reality of Jude’s declining cognitive state. It’s not just a linear descent into tragedy; it’s a mosaic of moments that are being actively scrubbed away as we watch them.

The chemistry between Olivia Cooke and Jack O'Connell is the film's lifeblood. If they didn't feel like a real couple—the kind that has inside jokes and a specific, messy shorthand—the stakes wouldn't matter. But they do. When Jude begins to forget the "Blue Pilot" story (their foundational memory), it doesn't feel like a plot point; it feels like a death. Raúl Castillo and Soko provide a heartbreaking subplot as a couple further along in the disease's progression, serving as a grim "Ghost of Christmas Future" for our leads. Castillo, in particular, delivers a performance that is an absolute masterclass in quiet, restrained terror.

The cinematography by Sean McElwee uses a soft, hazy palette that feels like an overexposed photograph. It’s beautiful, but it’s also functional—it suggests the way memories lose their edges before they vanish entirely. The film asks a brutal question: If we lose the memory of our love, does the love itself still exist? It’s an emotionally masochistic exercise that left me staring at my blank screen for a good ten minutes after the credits rolled.

Why Did Nobody See This?

Despite a glowing critical reception, Little Fish is a "forgotten curiosity" in the most literal sense. Its box office haul was a measly $39,053. In the era of streaming dominance, it was dumped onto digital platforms with very little fanfare, overshadowed by the noise of a real-world pandemic that people were desperate to escape, not revisit through fiction. It’s a shame, because this isn't a "misery porn" movie. It’s a film about the effort of remembering.

Interestingly, the story was inspired by Mattson Tomlin's own experience watching his grandfather struggle with Alzheimer's, but the sci-fi wrapper allows it to explore that grief on a much more cinematic, universal scale. It’s a "small" movie with "big" ideas, standing alongside films like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind or Arrival in its ability to use a high-concept premise to poke at the softest parts of the human heart.

If you missed this during the 2021 blur—and statistically, you did—it’s time to seek it out. It’s a testament to the fact that even in an era of franchise saturation and $200 million spectacles, a story about two people in a room trying to remember a first kiss can still be the most gripping thing on screen. Just make sure you have some tissues nearby; you're going to need them.

Little Fish is a rare bird: a science fiction film that cares more about the soul than the science. Through the powerhouse performances of Olivia Cooke and Jack O'Connell, it turns the abstract concept of memory loss into a visceral, intimate battle. It’s one of the best films of the 2020s so far, and it deserves to be remembered far longer than its tragic release window allowed. Seek it out, hold it close, and maybe back up your photos tonight.