A few days ago, I decided to go to the film theatre for a marathon—something I hadn’t done in ages. I wanted to catch a few films before they disappeared from the cinema, four in total, each with twenty to forty minutes in between. Just enough time to step outside, breathe in the world a little, and watch people as they walk by, chatting, rushing, or simply existing. It felt like an extension of the cinema experience—watching people, doing people things.

Which were these four films, why did I choose them and how do I feel about them afterwards?

Still from Small Things Like These (2024), directed by Tim Mielants.

It was a quiet Friday afternoon when I went to see Small Things Like These. The theatre was filled with elders, and honestly, I couldn’t help but admire their way of spending a weekday—taking time to sit with a story. I was there out of curiosity, wondering how Cillian Murphy, so often cast as the tough, commanding type in Peaky Blinders, would approach something as tender as this.

Directed by Tim Mielants, Small Things Like These strips away any sense of grandeur, opting instead for a grounded, deeply human story set in rural Ireland. Based on Claire Keegan’s novella, the film centres on Murphy’s character—a man trying to keep his family afloat while quietly grappling with his conscience. Murphy’s performance is restrained but deeply felt, showing the weight of unspoken emotions in every small gesture. Emily Watson complements him perfectly, delivering a performance that feels both raw and quietly powerful.

Enda Walsh’s script respects the audience’s intelligence, leaning into silences and subtext instead of overexplaining. Tim Mielants’ direction follows suit, letting the sparse visuals and muted tones amplify the story’s emotional undercurrents without ever feeling forced.

It was worth seeing, but the ending was so abrupt that it left the whole theatre in silence, everyone questioning if that was truly it. Yet, I think it’s one of those stories that takes time to sink in. It’s understandable, given that it delves into the complexities of conflicting religious institutions and the overwhelming power they hold. As someone who holds their faith dear, I found it incredibly uncomfortable and unfair to witness such events unfold, knowing that speaking out often feels impossible. Fortunately, I’ve always been able to avoid places where power is unchecked, where silence is expected in the face of injustice.

Cillian Murphy and Catholic guilt: a duo more terrifying than any horror film.

The second one on the run was The Outrun, adapted from Amy Liptrot’s memoir and directed by Nora Fingscheidt (System Crasher), which takes us into the fractured world of a 29-year-old Scottish woman grappling with the fallout of her alcoholism. Saoirse Ronan takes on the lead role as Rona, giving a powerful performance that makes it seem like every imperfection and flaw of the character is a part of her very essence. The film’s setting—the rugged, windswept Orkney Islands—is as much a character as Rona herself, the jagged cliffs and crashing waves reflect her inner emotional struggle.

Still from The Outrun (2024), directed by Nora Fingscheidt.

Watching The Outrun felt personal in ways I didn’t anticipate. Alcohol, along with the devastation it causes, is a reality I've experienced firsthand. It fractures relationships, dismantles lives, and creates a void that often feels impossible to overcome. That’s one of the reasons I don't drink—not even a sip. People often claim it makes them happy, but I've always found that idea unsettling, as if happiness needs an extra boost as if life itself isn't sufficient. But of course, I’m not judging anyone and I wish they’d treat me the same.

I'm feeling tired. I've already watched two films, but I still have two more to go. Maybe I'm also just processing what I've seen. The films were brilliant, touching, and beautiful, but they also made me reflect.

Still from All Shall Be Well (2024), directed by Ray Yeung.

All Shall Be Well is an emotional drama that goes through grief, family, and love within Hong Kong’s LGBTQ+ community. Directed by Ray Yeung, known for Twilight’s Kiss, the story focuses on a woman dealing with the sudden loss of her partner. In the middle of her heartbreak, she finds herself forming an unexpected bond with her late partner’s estranged family—a connection that slowly helps her heal and find peace.

Set in the lively streets of Hong Kong, the film beautifully captures how loss shapes people and how healing often comes from the most surprising places. It’s not flashy or over-the-top, just deeply human. Critics have loved how the movie handles complex relationships with care, making it feel raw and relatable.

If you’ve ever gone through grief or felt the weight of missing someone, All Shall Be Well hits home. It’s a reminder of how much we all need connection and understanding to make it through the hardest times. But do not forget, that even though you need each other, it’s difficult when there are some people out there who will make it hard for you. Especially when money is involved.

Still from Conclave (2024), directed by Edward Berger

I’ve seen a lot of Christian-themed films this year, such as the final marathon film of today, Conclave (2024). It takes us inside the Vatican after the Pope’s death, where the secretive process of electing his successor begins. It’s a tense, tradition-heavy setting that perfectly lends itself to drama, and Berger delivers with a stellar cast and a sharp eye for detail.

The story starts with Ralph Fiennes as Cardinal Lawrence, who rushes to the Vatican only to find Cardinal Bellini (played by Stanley Tucci) quietly praying at the late Pope’s bedside. From the start, the contrast between them is clear—Lawrence, heavy with duty and inner conflict, and Bellini, calm and pragmatic, with a touch of dry humour. It sets the stage for a narrative that’s as much about power and politics as it is about faith.

The cardinals bring a mix of personalities: career-focused traditionalists, devout believers, and schemers. As Sister Agnes, Isabella Rossellini represents the women’s role in the Church’s politics, showing that influence isn’t limited to the men in red robes. Together, they create a layered, gripping look at how faith and authority collide behind closed doors.

Adapted from Robert Harris’s novel, Conclave blends political thriller elements with deeply human drama. The tension builds through clever twists, and Berger’s direction keeps the pace measured but never slow. The grand, austere locations used as stand-ins for the Sistine Chapel add a stark beauty, reflecting both the sacred and the cold, institutional feel of the Church.

What makes Conclave stand out is how it balances the weight of its themes with personal stakes. Lines like “Faith walks hand in hand with doubt” hit hard, exploring the fragility of belief and the very human flaws of those in power. By the time the film reaches its climactic moments, it’s less about who becomes Pope and more about what the process reveals about power, faith, and vulnerability.

This post was first published on my Substack, letters by Yusuf

Faith, redemption, and rural reveries: 'Small Things Like These,' 'The Outrun,' 'All Shall Be Well,' and 'Conclave' explore life's quiet dramas

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