Small Things Like These

There is a specific kind of quiet that only exists in a small town in the dead of winter, where the air smells like peat smoke and the weight of everyone’s secrets keeps the frost from melting. Small Things Like These lives entirely within that hush. It’s a film that doesn’t just ask for your attention; it demands your stillness. I watched this in a theater where the person behind me was aggressively unwrapping a Mentos for three minutes, and I’ve never felt more like a character in a psychological thriller. That tiny, crinkling sound felt like a gunshot because the movie itself is so delicately tuned to the unspoken.

Following his "Barbenheimer" victory lap, Cillian Murphy could have signed on to play a CGI-heavy villain or a suave spy. Instead, he chose to produce and star in a 99-minute film about a coal merchant in 1985 Wexford who realizes the local convent is doing something unspeakable to young women. It’s a move that defines the current "prestige indie" era—using massive star power to greenlight a story that is stubbornly, beautifully uncommercial.

The Landscape of a Face

If you’ve seen Cillian Murphy in Peaky Blinders or Oppenheimer, you know his eyes do about 70% of the heavy lifting. In Small Things Like These, they are the entire special effects department. As Bill Furlong, a man bone-tired from hauling coal and raising five daughters, Murphy gives a performance of such internal vibration that you can almost hear his thoughts. He’s a man haunted by his own "illegitimate" birth, and when he discovers a girl locked in a freezing coal shed at the convent, the past and present collide in his chest.

The film operates on a level of performance nuance that we rarely see in the franchise-heavy 2020s. There are no grand speeches. There is no courtroom climax. Instead, we get a masterclass in tension during a tea-drinking scene between Bill and Emily Watson, who plays Sister Mary. Watson is terrifying. She doesn't twirl a mustache; she offers a Christmas card and an envelope of cash with a smile that suggests she knows exactly where your children go to school. Watson’s performance is a chilling reminder of how institutional power often wears the face of a polite grandmother.

The chemistry between Bill and his wife, Eileen (played by the fantastic Eileen Walsh), provides the necessary friction. Eileen isn't a villain; she’s a pragmatist. She knows that in 1980s Ireland, the Church owns the schools, the laundry, and the town's soul. Her plea to "just keep on" is the film’s moral heart—a devastating look at how "good" people allow atrocities to happen simply by looking at their own shoes.

The Grime of the Eighties

Director Tim Mielants—who previously worked with Murphy on Peaky Blinders—and cinematographer Frank van den Eeden have crafted a film that feels damp to the touch. This isn't the "Stranger Things" version of the eighties with neon lights and synth-pop. This is the Ireland of grey wool, stained wallpaper, and the permanent layer of coal dust under Bill’s fingernails. The visual language is claustrophobic, mirroring the social trap the characters find themselves in.

Interestingly, this project exists because of a very modern Hollywood shift. Murphy reportedly pitched the idea to Matt Damon on the set of Oppenheimer, leading to it being produced by Artists Equity—the studio founded by Ben Affleck and Matt Damon to give artists more control and better pay. In an era where mid-budget adult dramas are supposedly "dead" at the box office, seeing this kind of collaboration result in a box office return nearly four times its budget is a massive win for those of us who still crave "grown-up" cinema.

The script, adapted by Enda Walsh from Claire Keegan’s novella, is a lesson in economy. It trusts the audience to understand the history of the Magdalene Laundries without a clunky introductory text crawl. For those who don't know the history, the realization of what’s happening in that convent dawns slowly and painfully, making the eventual payoff feel earned rather than manipulated. I’m convinced that any movie over two hours should be legally required to watch this film's editing for pointers on pacing.

A Quiet Act of Rebellion

What strikes me most about Small Things Like These is its relevance to our current cultural moment. While it’s set forty years ago, its exploration of complicity and the "things you have to ignore so you can keep on" feels pointedly modern. In a world of social media performance and polarized discourse, the film asks a much harder question: What would you actually risk your livelihood for in your own backyard?

The film doesn't offer a soaring, heroic ending because that’s not how these stories usually went. It offers something smaller and more profound—a single act of decency that might cost a man everything. It’s a film that stays with you long after the credits roll, making you look at your own community and the "small things" we all choose to ignore daily.

Small Things Like These is a somber, exquisite piece of filmmaking that proves Cillian Murphy is currently our most vital actor. It’s a film about the weight of coal and the even heavier weight of a guilty conscience. If you’re looking for a blockbuster thrill, keep moving, but if you want a movie that feels like a cold wind and a warm hearth, this is the best 99 minutes you’ll spend in a theater this year.