Reeling Review: Sunlit Rituals and Lingering Unease

“Reeling,” Yana Alliata’s striking debut, greets us with a single, fluid take that guides Ryan (Ryan Wuestewald) across his family’s O‘ahu estate. The shot’s patient choreography—reminiscent of the long takes in Satyajit Ray’s Charulata or Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s early work—invites us into Ryan’s fractured world as he rediscovers faces and places made strange by haunting gaps in his memory. The luau’s sunlit warmth and rhythmic beat of drums evoke the communal rituals of Bollywood’s colorful crowd scenes, only here they underscore a growing dissonance: laughter and volleyball amid an undercurrent of isolation.

Much like the parallel cinema of India, which privileged human struggle over spectacle, “Reeling” blends scripted drama with improvised moments drawn from Alliata’s real-life friends and family. The result is a palpable authenticity—every roasted pig and whispered greeting feels rooted in genuine emotion. Over a lean 70 minutes, cinematographer Rafael Leyva’s golden hour palette shifts to cooler blues as evening falls, symbolizing Ryan’s slipping grasp on self. Through this fusion of global techniques and localized storytelling, “Reeling” explores what it means to return to a home that no longer exists in memory.

Mapping Memory Through Movement: Narrative & Structure

“Reeling” opens with a seamless two-and-a-half-minute tracking shot that follows Ryan (Ryan Wuestewald) from his car across the luau grounds. This choice, echoing the long takes of Indian parallel filmmakers like Adoor Gopalakrishnan, places viewers directly in Ryan’s uncertain mindset. We see his scalp scar catch the sunlight, and watch as he hesitates before each greeting, allowing small gestures—a hand rub at the temple, a delayed smile—to reveal the extent of his brain trauma. Information unfolds organically: a whispered introduction here, a sidelong glance there. Rather than an expositional monologue, the film trusts these visual cues and casual remarks to piece together Ryan’s accident and his fractured memory.

By day, the camera drifts through volleyball games and pig-roasting preparations in real time, inviting comparison to Bollywood’s vibrant festival sequences—yet here, the energy feels muted by Ryan’s detachment. Each game point and coconut-chopping beat stretches just long enough to underscore his growing unease. As dusk approaches, editing tightens: cuts become quicker, shadows deepen, and the soundtrack’s light steel-drum rhythms shift toward a darker percussive pulse. This transition mirrors global slow-burn trends seen in contemporary world cinema, where a languid first half gives way to a taut second, heightening suspense as family tensions surface.

Alliata’s blending of scripted scenes with improvised dialogue—reminiscent of Satyajit Ray’s use of naturalistic speech—lends authenticity to casual party chatter. Silent observation moments, like a slow-motion volley or the steady rotation of the roasting spit, offer viewers a breather while enriching the world around Ryan. These interludes ground the narrative in cultural ritual, much as song-and-dance interludes do in mainstream Indian films, but here they’re stripped of spectacle to highlight communal warmth. In Act III, sudden shifts in aspect ratio aim to disorient—an experimental echo of global arthouse practices—though at times they draw attention away from the emotional core. Still, these structural choices chart Ryan’s journey from alienation back toward confrontation.

Faces of Memory: Characters & Performances

Wuestewald inhabits Ryan’s fractured consciousness with a measured stillness that recalls the minimalist style of Indian parallel cinema greats like Shyam Benegal. His body language—hesitant steps, tense shoulders—speaks volumes before a word is uttered. In the salamander scene, Ryan crouches to whisper reassurance to a small creature, an image of childlike wonder tinged with desperation.

Later, he punctuates casual conversation by reciting a line of “Hamlet,” only to lose the thought mid-phrase. These moments—quiet, precise—allow us to feel the cost of his memory lapses. His breakdown amid the party’s crescendo, when he flails at invisible barriers, is raw and unmistakable, echoing the emotional vulnerability of performances in Satyajit Ray’s character-driven dramas.

DeParis treads a fine line between sisterly warmth and overprotective control, channeling both the nurturing instinct seen in Bollywood family dramas and the more reserved concern of art-house treatments. Her carefully timed smiles and deliberate pacing as she reintroduces Ryan to friends feel compassionate yet constraining. When she assigns him the guesthouse without asking, the gesture reads as gentle kindness and subtle micro-aggression: a choice made for him rather than by him. These nuances underscore how love can become a soft cage.

Christopher’s John is initially Kosovan-calculated—aloof, muscular, reserved—before layers of guilt and sibling rivalry emerge. His terse greetings solidify early resentment, reminiscent of brooding heroes in modern global thrillers. As evening darkens, John’s hostility intensifies: a cutting remark here, a shove there. When the siblings clash in the climax, Christopher’s fury gives way to a moment of anguished remorse, mirroring the cathartic breakthroughs common in Indian parallel narratives.

By weaving Alliata’s own friends and family into the background, the film cultivates the organic spontaneity of neorealist cinema. Their unfiltered laughter, clumsy volleyball serves, and casual chatter amplify the sense of community, yet also intensify Ryan’s isolation. The contrast between the effortless camaraderie around the roasting pig and Ryan’s solitary figure by the beach highlights how a single outsider can feel adrift within a sea of familiarity.

Crafting Atmosphere: Visuals and Sound in Reeling

Leyva’s lens bathes the luau in a spectrum of warm golds during daylight, evoking the sun-washed palettes of Bollywood’s outdoor festival numbers, then drifts toward cool blues as shadows deepen—mirroring Ryan’s slipping grasp on reality. The opening one-shot, which trails Ryan in centered compositions, recalls the immersive long takes of Adoor Gopalakrishnan’s early work, anchoring us firmly in the protagonist’s unsettled point of view. Throughout, Leyva alternates between wide, communal frames that highlight group rituals—pig roasting, volleyball—and intimate close-ups, capturing the flicker of confusion in Ryan’s eyes.

In daylight, editing moves at a leisurely pace, allowing each slice of party life to unfold in near real time, much like the unhurried montage sequences in parallel cinema’s character studies. As evening approaches, cuts become tighter, building tension as family fractures surface. The bold shift in aspect ratio during the third act—a sudden transition to a narrower frame—seeks to disorient viewers alongside Ryan. While this technique channels the experimental spirit of contemporary arthouse films, it occasionally pulls attention away from the emotional stakes. Nevertheless, the momentary squeeze of the image effectively conveys a sense of claustrophobia as Ryan confronts his siblings.

Michael MacAllister’s sparse, percussive score underscores key moments with a heartbeat-like rhythm, its restraint recalling minimalist approaches in global festival cinema. The standout a cappella sequence—where ambient luau sounds drop out entirely—immerses us in Ryan’s inner world, heightening his disorientation in the same way silence amplifies ritual hymns in south Indian temple scenes. When natural party sounds return—laughter, distant conversations, the crackle of the spit—the contrast is jarring, reminding us that Ryan remains an outsider in this vibrant community. This interplay between diegetic noise and musical pauses deepens the film’s emotional resonance, making every drumbeat and whispered greeting count.

Echoes of Self: Themes & Symbolism

“Reeling” positions Ryan’s scar as both a literal wound and a marker of lost time, evoking the fractured identities explored in Ritwik Ghatak’s cinema, where trauma reshapes the self. His journal—clipped pages of reminders—becomes a talisman against forgetting, much like the letters and photographs that anchor characters in Indian parallel films such as Mrinal Sen’s Bhuvan Shome.

The salamander scene, in which Ryan coaxes a hesitant creature with soft words, symbolizes his quest for companionship in a world that no longer speaks his language. As guests casually reference shared pasts he cannot recall, we witness a tension between the “before” self—confident, fluent in familial codes—and the “after” stranger, forced to reconstruct identity from fragments.

Blood ties in Reeling function like the complex familial webs of mainstream Bollywood dramas, yet here they are stripped of melodrama and painted in subtle shades of indifference and guilt. Meg’s insistence on guiding Ryan’s every move recalls the protective matriarchs in films like Pather Panchali, but beneath her warmth lies an infantilizing impulse that restricts rather than comforts. John’s hostility, by contrast, echoes the aloof elder brothers in contemporary arthouse narratives. The luau itself serves as a stage for these dynamics: a ritual of hospitality that simultaneously demands performative unity and masks deep-seated resentment.

Visually, Ryan’s separation is underscored by his solitary guesthouse, framed at dusk in wide shots that contrast sharply with the tight groupings around the main pavilion. This motif of distance recalls the use of space in Mani Kaul’s work, where characters stand apart to signify emotional chasms. Moments of reprieve—Ryan alone on the beach, waves crashing around him—offer fleeting communion with nature, suggesting that belonging need not spring from blood but from shared ritual and landscape.

Set against a traditional Hawaiian luau, Reeling subtly interrogates the homogeneity of its predominantly white cast, much as Satyajit Ray’s The Big City examines urban alienation amid cultural rituals. Ryan’s outsider status among familiar “friends” underscores the film’s central question: when memory fails, who decides where you belong?

Closing Reflections

“Reeling” weaves sunlit warmth and growing unease into a tapestry of memory and belonging. By marrying naturalistic party scenes with mounting tension, Yana Alliata creates a film that feels both intimate and unsettling, much like the shift from calm to chaos in Indian art-house dramas.

The film’s immersive direction and Ryan Wuestewald’s nuanced performance anchor its emotional core. Rafael Leyva’s cinematography and Michael MacAllister’s sparse score work in concert to draw viewers into Ryan’s perspective. Occasionally, the pacing between luau preparations and dramatic confrontations slows the momentum, and the late-act aspect-ratio shifts, while daring, can pull focus from the story’s heart.

Viewers drawn to character-driven psychological dramas—especially those who appreciate the blend of scripted and improvised storytelling in parallel cinema—will find “Reeling” a compelling experience. Be prepared for moments that unsettle as much as they soothe.

As a festival standout, “Reeling” offers a memorable exploration of how memory shapes identity and kinship. Its cultural authenticity and technical flair invite discussion about home, family, and the fragile boundary between remembering and forgetting.

Full Credits

Director: Yana Alliata

Writers: Yana Alliata, Amy Miner

Producers: Jack Forbes

Executive Producers: Werner Herzog, Nicole Macnaughton

Cast: Ryan Wuestewald, Hans Christopher, Nikki DeParis, Fabrizio Alliata, Makena Miller, Nyah Juliano, Michael Carter

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Rafael Leyva

Editor: Chris Punsalan

Composer: Michael MacAllister