Drowning Dry, directed by Laurynas Bareiša, is not a film that announces itself loudly. Instead, it moves with quiet certainty and emotional precision, gradually unraveling a domestic story with the weight of a psychological thriller. What begins as a lakeside weekend to celebrate a child’s birthday and a martial arts victory turns into a haunting meditation on memory, responsibility, and the fragile bonds of family.
Two sisters, Ernesta (Gelminė Glemžaitė) and Juste (Agnė Kaktaitė), organize the trip, joined by their children and partners. The atmosphere initially feels low-key, almost mundane—swimming, meals, idle talk. But under the surface simmers a history of unresolved tensions. When a child nearly drowns, everything shifts. Rather than building to a single climactic confrontation, the film revisits the incident repeatedly. Each time, the same event is re-staged with subtle changes in emotion, pacing, or emphasis. It’s a daring structural approach that pays off, revealing how perception shapes memory—and how guilt distorts both.
The performances are exceptional in their restraint. Glemžaitė’s Ernesta walks a razor-thin emotional line, concealing deep anxiety behind tight smiles and deliberate calm. Kaktaitė’s Juste, on the other hand, simmers with a different kind of tension—her weariness and irritability quietly suggesting a history of emotional disrepair. The men, played by Paulius Markevicius (Lukas) and Giedrius Kiela (Tomas), are less expressive but crucial. Markevicius, in particular, brings a tightly coiled physicality to Lukas that makes even mundane gestures—such as carrying a child or standing by the dock—feel charged with possibility and menace. His character is a fighter, but it’s the ambiguity of where that aggression might spill that adds depth.
Bareiša, who also handled the cinematography, frames scenes with a cool, distanced eye. The camera often lingers, unblinking, as though trying to catch the moment someone cracks. The lighting is frequently natural, muted, and emphasizes the emotional flatness of the vacation and the starkness of the potential tragedy. The repetition of scenes is never a gimmick—instead, it functions like emotional archaeology, each layer exposing a new truth, or at least a new version of it. Even a seemingly simple act—like dancing to a pop song—feels transformed under this structure, taking on an eerie or bittersweet edge depending on what came before.
This isn’t a film for those seeking dramatic speeches or narrative closure. But if you’re drawn to emotionally intelligent storytelling and films that trust the audience to interpret rather than be told, Drowning Dry offers a moving, quietly unforgettable experience.