That They May Face the Rising Sun: A Year of Stillness, Love, and Life in Rural Ireland

At TIFF, I walked into That They May Face the Rising Sun with a quiet curiosity. I walked out in silence, full of thoughts. It is not the kind of film that insists on attention but rather the kind that stays with you. Not in big waves, but in slow, quiet ripples. This Irish film, adapted from John McGahern’s final novel, is a lyrical portrayal of one year in a rural village in Leitrim. It is not structured around dramatic events or twists. It simply follows life as it unfolds, unhurried and sincere.

The story follows a couple who move from London to the Irish countryside to embrace a slower, more deliberate life. They leave behind the chaos of city living for a quieter rhythm, something I must admit struck a personal chord. I sometimes find myself yearning for that same shift,  a life where time stretches, where mornings mean something, and where life is not always caught between deadlines and transit schedules.

The film opens gently, almost like a stage play. A quiet conversation between characters like Jamesie and Billy sets the tone. The dialogue is meandering, funny, and thoughtful. You are not pushed to understand every character right away. Instead, you are invited to live among them, to observe them, and to feel their pace. It is a film about belonging. One of the villagers even says it aloud: there is a difference between landing and belonging.

Joe, the central male character, is a poet. He is reflective and private. His wife Kate, a painter is grounded, patient, and deeply connected to the people around her. Their home is open, humble, and inviting. There is even a special chair designated for guests, an unspoken ritual of hospitality and welcome. Over the course of the year, the village around them becomes not just a setting, but a living, breathing network of relationships. Marriage, friendship, festivity, and even death pass through their doors like seasons and a dilemma of London calling them back

Kate questions Joe at one point, saying it feels like he is living day to day. Joe gently replies, “Isn’t that the beauty of it?” That line stayed with me. Because that is the essence of the film - finding contentment in the ordinary, in the now, in the rhythm of shared routines and unexpected pauses.

There is an ongoing metaphor in the movie. A patio that has been under construction for two years. No urgency. No timelines. Just slow progress. It represents the life they have chosen. One that resists the need for completion in favor of intention and presence.

The movie also poses quiet but critical questions. Are you happy? What does it mean to be content? What do we give up when we choose predictability in cities over a more spontaneous, interwoven life in a rural setting? The characters speak about how we often pay a heavy price for structure and certainty. Leitrim may be slow, but it is rich in soul.

The real beauty of the movie lies in its small, everyday conversations. Kate and Jamesie talk about weaving a basket, how long it takes, and how that time is part of the joy. Patrick storms out after an uncomfortable disagreement with Joe and Kate. Nothing is dramatized, just acknowledged. These are not big moments by cinematic standards, but they carry weight and emotional resonance.

There is a Christmas dinner with Bill and the Shah, warm and familiar, where the Shah shares the news of his wedding. And there is also pain. A deeply moving exchange between Mary and Jamesie. about their brother Johnny, who had been let go from his city job and wants to return to the country.  Jamesie is hesitant but Johnny’s quiet passing is marked with a sense of communal regret and there’s the dilemma of Kate who is requested to return to London to manage her family museum and starts questioning their Irish life. Lalor Roddy as Patrick stole the show as a grumpy but morally upright person who wants to bury his friend’s body to face the rising sun

These scenes are not tied together by a dramatic arc. Instead, they form a gentle portrait of life and its rhythms. The film feels almost like a play, with each visit, argument, or meal forming a chapter. The village itself becomes a character, with its routines, its gossip, and its warmth.

All these small stories come together to show what rural life can be. Not a retreat, but a different kind of fullness. A reminder that happiness may not need to be sought. That it should be allowed to arrive at its own pace.

Watching this film made me reflect on my own longing for slowness. For community. For a life not measured in tasks but in moments. There is something deeply reassuring in watching a group of people move through a year together, with all its seasons of laughter, tension, reflection, and grief. That They May Face the Rising Sun is a quiet film. But in its stillness, it reminds you that life is not in the noise. It is in the people you sit with, the words you exchange, and the silences you are comfortable in.

Maybe your own version of Leitrim is out there too, waiting with open arms. Not to be chased, but to be found when you are finally ready to arrive.