Mark Jenkin’s Rose of Nevada

Cornwall is English, but its legends, such as mermaids and maybe even the Lady of the Lake, are closely related to the Welsh, Celtic, and pre-Roman pagan traditions. Mark Jenkin channeled much of that lore in his austere folk horror film, Enys Men. Supposedly, this film is set in the same continuity, but casual viewers (if such a creature exists for Jenkin’s films), might not catch the connective tissue. Nevertheless, Jenkin tells a very modern kind of story that is still inescapably burdened by the weight of the past in Rose of Nevada, which opens today in New York.

Ever since the titular fishing vessel disappeared three decades prior, Nick Dyer’s small harbor town plunged into depression and stagnation. It was like the fish vanished with the Rose of Nevada. It probably should not have gone out shorthanded. Consequently, Luke, the fisherman who shirked his duties, committed suicide out of guilt. Thirtysome years later, Nick Dyer and his wife and daughter live in Luke’s leaky former home.

One fateful day, the missing boat drifts into the harbor. Sensing an opportunity, the owner hires salty Murgee to captain the Rose. He in turn takes on Dyer and Liam, a drifter of questionable moral fiber, to crew. The fish practically leap into the hold, but once they return to port, Dyer discovers the Rose traveled backwards in time thirty years. Everyone now believes they are the original missing crew. Liam decides it is all very well for him, because he quickly takes up with his former girlfriend’s mother.

Of course, it is much less convenient for Dyer. Each time they return to port, the timeline further crisscrosses, causing him even more confusion, angst, and desperation. Perhaps Rose of Nevada could have been the Somewhere in Time for the 2020s, if Jenkin had slightly moderated his Spartan aesthetic approach for the sake of popular tastes. However, Jenkin makes no concessions to anyone or anything. Nevertheless, there are moments of arresting beauty and eeriness, but Jenkin demands the audience must pay attention and work for them.

Like Enys Men, Jenkin (serving as his own cinematographer) shot on Rose of Nevada on deliberately distressed-looking 16mm stock. The film itself looks like an artifact that might have also washed up on shore. Every second of this film was deliberately crafted, in a way that is totally hypnotic and eventually anesthetizing.

Likewise, George MacKay (whose profile should have risen more after 1917) is absolutely haunting as Dyer. As it happens, MacKay rather specializes in dark fantastical realism at sea, having played a similar role in Paul Wright’s underappreciated For Those in Peril. The two films would make a powerful but depressing double feature.

Conversely, Callum Turner has the right caddish swagger and unpredictable edginess for Liam, while fisherman-turned-thesp Francis Magee is flinty and grizzled in a way that commands the screen, as old Murgey. Yet, Mary Woodvine and Adrian Rawlins are truly heartbreaking as Luke’s parents.

Rose of Nevada could have been Jenkin’s breakout hit. Instead, it might be the truest realization of his cinematic vision. It is not for everyone, but it represents a rare example of experimentally inclined filmmaking that also holds considerable emotional power. Recommended for bold, self-identifying cineastes, Rose of Nevada opens today (6/19) in New York, at the IFC Center.