THE STORY – One summer, Dídac bikes along the Danube, drawn to a mysterious boy, Alexander, while his mother recalls a past love. As their journey continues, Dídac begins to question who Alexander truly is.
THE CAST – Nausicaa Bonnín, Jordi Oriol & Jan Monter
THE TEAM – Jaume Claret Muxart (Director/Writer) & Meritxell Colell Aparicio (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 106 Minutes
Jaume Claret Muxart’s debut feature “Strange River” begins in the glow of summer, with a Catalan family pedaling along the banks of the Danube on a holiday that promises little more than leisure and freedom. What initially seems like an innocent travelogue of tents, river swims, and carefree cycling gradually transforms into something more elusive and introspective: a meditation on adolescence, desire, and the fragile bonds within a family. The film sets out to capture not only a journey across landscapes but also a journey inward, one that unfolds with the hazy rhythm of memory and the unsteady pulse of youth on the verge of self-discovery.
At the heart of the story is Dídac, a reserved sixteen-year-old played with quiet magnetism by Jan Monter. He is the eldest of three brothers, distant yet attentive, already drifting away from the world of childhood games and sibling chatter. His father, Albert, an architect with a penchant for detours to admire buildings, provides structure but also a touch of rigidity. His mother, Monika, an actress preparing for a role, carries with her the echoes of youthful love that parallel her son’s awakening. The youngest brother, Biel, meanwhile, is alert enough to notice the subtle shift in his older sibling, the way his attention seems to slip elsewhere, into a realm of secrets. This shift is embodied in Alexander, an enigmatic boy who appears in the water one day as though conjured by the river itself. He comes and goes with little explanation, not so much a character in the traditional sense as a fleeting figure of desire, a mirror for Dídac’s longings and uncertainties. Their encounters are tentative, fragile, and sometimes dreamlike, destabilizing the rhythms of family life. For Dídac, Alexander is both a revelation and a disruption, sparking a transformation that he cannot yet articulate but that quietly changes everything.
One of the film’s most admirable qualities lies in its treatment of sexuality. Too often, cinema has framed queer adolescence in terms of crisis, conflict, or melodramatic revelation. Muxart chooses a different path, one of understated openness. Dídac’s attraction is neither sensationalized nor burdened with shame. His parents, for their part, are portrayed as understanding and supportive, their acceptance a natural extension of their love. In a landscape where queer coming-of-age stories are still too frequently told through tragedy, the ease and sincerity with which Strange River approaches its subject feels both refreshing and quietly radical. The visual texture of the film reinforces this intimacy. Shot on 16mm, the imagery has the softness of an old photograph, suffused with sunlight and subtly grainy. The camera lingers on water, grass, and skin, on fleeting glances and hesitant gestures, transforming small details into carriers of meaning. There is an organic rhythm to the cinematography that matches the ebb and flow of summer itself: long afternoons where time seems suspended, sudden storms that break the stillness, evenings by the river that shimmer with possibility. These choices create a sensory experience that is immersive and tender, inviting the viewer to inhabit the liminal space between dream and reality.
Yet the same qualities that lend the film its poetry also expose its limitations. Muxart’s emphasis on atmosphere over narrative produces passages of great beauty, but as the film progresses, the repetition of images and motifs begins to weigh it down. Scenes often continue beyond their emotional peak, stretching into silence without gaining new resonance. The river becomes a recurring metaphor, at once powerful and overused, its constant presence eventually dulling rather than sharpening its symbolic weight. What at first feels hypnotic risks becoming monotonous, and the languid pacing, while intentional, does not always succeed in sustaining engagement.
It is here that the film’s origins as a more compact idea become most visible. Strange River contains within it the essence of a luminous short film: the tender confusion of first love, the delicate recalibration of family bonds, the fleeting quality of summer days. Extended to feature length, however, these elements sometimes feel stretched too thin. There are moments of undeniable grace, such as a riverside encounter rendered entirely without words, or a family meal where affection flickers beneath irritation, or a final gesture of connection that resonates with bittersweet clarity. But these moments arrive sporadically, surrounded by stretches of silence and stillness that, while visually appealing, struggle to advance the emotional arc.
The performances do much to anchor the film in humanity. Jan Monter carries the role of Dídac with remarkable restraint, his eyes conveying confusion, longing, and vulnerability in ways that transcend the need for dialogue. Nausicaa Bonnín as Monika adds depth through her character’s parallel thread of memory, her subtle melancholy hinting at how parents revisit their own youth when watching their children come of age. Jordi Oriol as Albert offers a blend of firmness and care, a father who sometimes missteps but is never unsympathetic. Even young Biel, though given less narrative weight, emerges as a quietly poignant figure, the brother left on the shore as Dídac ventures into uncharted waters. Taken as a whole, “Strange River” is a film of contradictions. It is delicate yet heavy, luminous yet static, emotionally resonant in moments yet diffuse across its length. It succeeds in evoking the fleeting ache of adolescence, the confusion of desire, and the fragile tenderness of family. Still, it falls short of sustaining its poetry across the span of a feature. Like the river it portrays, the film meanders, sometimes beautifully, sometimes aimlessly, carrying the viewer along without always arriving at a clear destination.
As a debut, however, it marks the arrival of a filmmaker with a distinct poetic sensibility, one who understands the power of suggestion and the importance of silence. Muxart demonstrates a gift for crafting images that linger and for approaching delicate subjects with empathy and restraint. If “Strange River” ultimately feels more like a sketch than a fully realized canvas, it is nevertheless a sketch of considerable promise. The film leaves behind not the clarity of a resolved narrative but the impression of a season remembered: the glow of sunlight on skin, the sound of water rushing past, the ache of a love that was both fragile and formative. For some viewers, that impression will be enough. For others, the lack of narrative depth may frustrate. But either way, the film captures something essential about the way summers of youth burn brightly and then fade, leaving behind only memory.
