Ondine (2010)
Whenever Neil Jordan delves into the world of folklore, fairy tales, and the supernatural, it’s always overt, always clear that the intention is to immerse the audience in pure fantasy. He takes a different approach with Ondine, a film that examines the Irish legend of selkies, sea creatures that can transform from seals to humans and back again. The intention is to keep aspects of the story ambiguous; even with a final act that provides rational explanations, I thought back on certain scenes and was still left with doubts. Admittedly, this could be because, as an unashamed dreamer and sentimental fool, I wanted the impossible to be possible. Perhaps that’s the point Jordan is trying to make. Indeed, the tagline on the poster reads, “The truth is not what you know. It’s what you believe.” In that way, the film is like Miracle on 34th Street.
Selkies were also at the heart of John Sayles’ wonderful 1995 film The Secret of Roan Inish. But that had an old-world, homespun charm; you could feel the magic coursing through every frame. Ondine, aside from being contemporary, is grittier, heavier – more down to earth, you might say. Yes, we see the beauty of babbling brooks, lush green forests, and serene tide pools. But they’re all in the confines of a small Irish seaside community that has clearly seen better days economically; fishing boats rust in their docks, houses are old and cramped, there are very few paved roads, and old structures like churches are so coated in overgrowth that it would probably take several groundskeepers to make things pretty again.
Living in this tiny town is Syracuse (Colin Farrell), a recovering alcoholic who, because of his past drunken antics, has been saddled with the unwanted nickname of Circus. He barely gets by as a fisherman; no matter how many traps he sets, the pickings are always slim. Then, quite unexpectedly, his net catches an unconscious woman (Alicja Bachleda). After he revives her – and, not surprisingly, begins falling in love with her – she claims to not remember her name, but decides to call herself Ondine. She’s also adamant – desperate, really – in requesting that no one apart from Syracuse be allowed to see her. This won’t last, of course, and it will be for various reasons.
The most obvious reason is Ondine’s meeting and immediate bond with Syracuse’s precocious adolescent daughter Annie (Alison Barry), who lives with her still-alcoholic mother (Dirvla Kirwan) and her mother’s new chain-smoking Scottish boyfriend (Tony Curran). If this weren’t bad enough, Annie suffers from kidney failure, is regularly on dialysis, and, though not paralyzed, will spend most of the film in an electric wheelchair. She immediately determines that the fanciful tale her father told her about the fisherman and the woman from the sea is in fact a true account. Annie also believes that Ondine is a selkie. Ondine does nothing to convince her otherwise; she even grabs from the bottom of the shallow water something coated in seaweed, presumably her sealskin, and buries it. If I’m remembering the legend correctly, a buried sealskin will keep a selkie on land for seven years.
Rationalists could never bring themselves to believe Ondine is an actual selkie. For them, the final act, which involves a mysterious man Annie believes to be Ondine’s selkie husband (Emil Hostina), will only confirm what they knew to be true all along. But let’s not be too hasty. It can’t be denied that when Ondine sings as Syracuse does his round of fishing, he catches a bountiful amount of lobsters and, stranger still, salmon. It also can’t be denied that Ondine’s presence seems to set into motion a chain of events, both good and bad, that lead to desired outcomes. And why is it that Annie can spend more time out of her wheelchair when around Ondine? If your rationalism remains unshaken, then all this is nothing more than a series of coincidences.
But what about for those who are open to events, experiences, and evidence of all things outside of rational thought? Whether or not she’s a selkie, they may still see Ondine as someone with a touch of magic in her. Even a man as cynical and beaten down as Syracuse isn’t blind to the changes she has brought. “She brings me luck,” he unofficially confesses to apparently the only priest in town (Stephen Rea). “I know something’s going to happen. Something wonderful … or terrible.” Syracuse visits the priest regularly, not because he’s religious, but because, as a Catholic, the priest can be confided in without it turning into gossip. The priest has listened patiently to Syracuse for several years, and offers him the following advice: “Misery is easy. Happiness you have to work at.” I suppose the same applies to Ondine; you either take the easy road and not believe in magic, or you work to see the impossible when no one else sees it.
