Jason McKiernan

There’s a blissful ignorance on display throughout Marry Me that is simultaneously discomfiting and wistful, its flowery romance presented though a lens of casual globe-hopping, packed concert venues, and glitzy nights on the town. Part of that is surely because it was shot pre-pandemic, another in the long line of films that have been sitting patiently on the shelf, awaiting a plausible release window.

As Chris and Tony make their way from mainland Sweden to the beautiful shores of Fårö Island, there’s an unmistakable sense the journey is transportive. Maybe it’s the general difficulty of the trip – traversing narrow roads, locating a port, parking on a boat, and floating casually to the island – but it’s hard to ignore the feeling that this couple is exiting one universe and entering another.

There are few topics more galling and volatile than gun violence, no emotional terrain more ravaging than the murder of a child, and no venue more uncomfortable to explore all of the above than a small, sterile room. In a feat that is equal parts daring and frustrating, Mass centers both its narrative and its form on all three, bringing together four grieving characters in a single room and never shifting its gaze as they explore every complicated layer of their anguish.