Small Things Like These (2024)

There’s a certain kind of film that doesn’t raise its voice, doesn’t shove its message in your face – it just quietly unfolds, and if you’re paying attention, it’ll rattle around inside you long after it ends. Small Things Like These is exactly that kind of film.

The story’s set in a small Irish town in the mid-80s, right around Christmas. Cillian Murphy plays Bill Furlong, a coal man going about his life – modest, routine, familiar. One cold morning, he delivers to a local convent and discovers something deeply unsettling. It’s not some loud, shocking twist. It’s quieter than that – something grim, buried beneath the surface. And as he starts to piece things together, the weight of what he’s seen starts messing with his conscience.

If you’ve heard of Ireland’s Magdalene Laundries, you’ll know the sort of territory this story’s treading. If not, brace yourself. These were real places where young women – often just for being pregnant or poor – were locked away, made to work, hidden from the world. A lot of people knew. A lot of people looked the other way. That’s what this film is really about – that awful, ordinary silence.

Cillian Murphy absolutely nails it. Bill isn’t a hero in the classic sense. He’s soft-spoken, gentle with his kids, keeps his head down. But as the film goes on, you can see the turmoil building in his eyes. Murphy’s brilliant at this kind of thing – the kind of acting where nothing big has to happen for you to feel everything. Emily Watson, as the Mother Superior, brings this eerie calmness that makes your skin crawl. She doesn’t need to yell to be terrifying. And Eileen Walsh, playing Bill’s wife, gives a beautifully grounded performance – she’s dealing with her own quiet storms.

The film itself has a kind of stripped-back feel. The colours are muted – all greys and dull blues – and it fits. It’s cold, both literally and emotionally. You can almost feel the damp air and the coal dust. The cinematography isn’t flashy but it’s effective – lots of long, still shots that let you sit in the discomfort. It’s the kind of visual style that doesn’t call attention to itself, but it does the job well.

There’s not a heap of dialogue. People speak in short bursts, often skirting around the real issue – very Irish, really. And it works. That quietness gives everything more impact when someone does finally say something honest. The music’s barely noticeable, which is exactly right. No swelling strings or dramatic cues. Just enough sound to keep the atmosphere thick.

Pacing-wise, it’s a slow burn. Some might find it too slow, and that’s fair. It takes its time getting where it’s going. But I’d argue that slowness is part of the point. You’re meant to sit with it, feel the discomfort, watch a man gradually realise that doing nothing isn’t as harmless as it feels.

Compared to something like Philomena or The Magdalene Sisters, this one’s a lot more internal. It’s not about fighting the system or taking on the Church – it’s about what happens inside one bloke’s head when he starts to really see what’s around him. It doesn’t end with fireworks. Just a man making a choice, knowing full well what it might cost him.

There’s a kind of sadness baked into every frame of this film. Not the melodramatic kind – just a quiet, aching kind of sadness that feels incredibly real. And yet, there’s something hopeful too, in the way it suggests that small acts – like noticing, like caring – can matter, even when they feel like nothing.

This film probably won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. If you’re after a fast-paced drama or a tidy ending, this won’t scratch that itch. But if you’ve got the patience for a slower, more reflective kind of story – one that trusts you to connect the dots and feel the weight of what’s left unsaid – Small Things Like These has a lot to offer. It’s not flashy, it’s not easy, but it’s honest. And sometimes, that’s enough.