‘Sunfish (& Other Stories on Green Lake)’ Review: A Nostalgic and Poignant Meditation on Small-Town Summers

Sierra Falconer’s debut is a quietly moving tapestry of fleeting moments, capturing the beauty, uncertainty, and emotional weight of transition.

The magic of Sunfish (& Other Stories on Green Lake) isn’t in sweeping drama or shocking twists but in its ability to transport the audience to a place that feels deeply lived-in. Sierra Falconer’s debut feature unfolds like a series of sun-dappled memories—four interwoven stories that explore longing, change, and the small but significant moments that shape who we become.

Set in a lakeside Michigan town, the film lingers in the in-between spaces of life: the final summer before adulthood, the last chance to fix a fractured relationship, the quiet realization that something—whether it’s childhood, love, or an entire way of life—is slipping away. Falconer’s storytelling is delicate yet purposeful, subtly weaving together the lives of Green Lake’s residents as they navigate love, ambition, and the ache of impending change.

At its core, Sunfish is an exploration of time—how it moves differently when you’re young, how seasons mark transitions, and how certain moments linger long after they’ve passed. The film is divided into four loosely connected vignettes, each following a character at a turning point in their life.

Lu (Maren Heary), a 14-year-old girl spending the summer with her grandparents, learns to sail, birdwatch, and, perhaps most importantly, begin the slow process of healing from her strained relationship with her absent mother. Blue (Tenley Kellogg) grapples with the impending departure of her older sister Robin (Emily Hall), who is heading off to culinary school, leaving Blue to run the family’s lakeside bed and breakfast. Across the lake, Jun (Jim Kaplan), a violin prodigy attending a prestigious music camp, struggles under the weight of expectations, caught between his desire for perfection and a yearning for something more.

The film’s most unexpected chapter belongs to Finn (Dominic Bogart), a fisherman determined to catch one last legendary fish before he succumbs to illness. His quest, aided by no-nonsense bartender Annie (Karsen Liotta), gives Sunfish its only real sense of urgency, injecting a hint of adventure into an otherwise introspective film. Their subplot feels like a local legend in the making—an ode to the kinds of stories that get passed down in small towns, growing more mythical with each retelling.

Falconer’s ability to immerse the audience in Green Lake’s rhythms is what makes Sunfish so captivating. The film moves at the pace of a slow, hazy summer day, inviting us to sit back, breathe in the scenery, and observe the way life unfolds in this quiet corner of the world.

The cinematography, full of soft natural light and warm colors, perfectly captures the nostalgia of small-town summers. There’s an authenticity to the way Falconer presents this world—not overly romanticized, but deeply affectionate. The lake is both a place of comfort and a symbol of change, reflecting the shifting emotions of the characters who find solace on its shores.

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Unlike many contemporary coming-of-age films, Sunfish is conspicuously absent of modern distractions. There are no smartphones, no social media-fueled anxieties, no reliance on digital escapism. When Lu wants to contact her mother, she uses a landline. When Finn and Annie need a harpoon gun, they don’t order it online—they find a local shop. The absence of modern technology feels like an intentional creative choice, reinforcing the film’s themes of presence and connection.

What sets Sunfish apart from similar indie dramas is its patience. Falconer trusts her audience to sit with the characters, to understand them through small gestures and quiet moments rather than expository dialogue. She’s not interested in grand emotional breakdowns or cathartic speeches; instead, she finds meaning in the way Blue clings to her sister in a hammock, in the nervous glance Jun throws his competition, in the unspoken grief Finn carries as he sets out on the lake one last time.

Some of the film’s most poignant moments are left unresolved. Jun’s rivalry with fellow violinist Enzo (Giovanni Mazza) carries hints of deeper longing, but Falconer wisely resists giving their dynamic an easy resolution. Similarly, Lu’s attempts to understand her mother remain frustratingly inconclusive—just as they often do in real life.

If Sunfish has a weakness, it’s that some of its narratives feel too similar in emotional tone. The film’s biggest deviation—Finn’s storyline—helps break up the pattern, but one could argue that more time spent with Green Lake’s adult residents might have added additional depth. That said, Falconer’s confidence in her storytelling, her ability to balance wistfulness with humor, and her keen sense of observation make even the film’s quieter moments compelling.

Sunfish (& Other Stories on Green Lake) is a film about impermanence—the way people grow, leave, and change, and how places remain, even as those who inhabit them move on. Falconer captures the essence of small-town life with tenderness and insight, crafting a film that feels like stepping into a memory.

The film may not be flashy, but it lingers—like the feeling of summer on your skin long after the season has ended.

RATING: ★★★★☆

CREDITS

TITLE: Sunfish (& Other Stories on Green Lake)

FESTIVAL: Sundance Film Festival (U.S. Dramatic Competition)

DIRECTOR-SCREENWRITER: Sierra Falconer

CAST: Maren Heary, Jim Kaplan, Karsen Liotta, Dominic Bogart, Tenley Kellogg, Emily Hall

DISTRIBUTOR: WME Sales Agent

RUNNING TIME: 87 MINS

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