Basiran
Long removed from his early days as the provocative enfant terrible of the mumblecore movement, writer-director Joe Swanberg has spent the last decade refining a distinct cinematic language. His latest feature, The Sun Never Sets, represents a matured, if somewhat perplexing, evolution of his signature style: a fusion of conventional romantic comedy tropes with the raw, improvisational experimentation that first put him on the map.
In The Sun Never Sets, Swanberg attempts to honor the structural satisfactions of the classic rom-com while simultaneously stretching its sexual and emotional parameters. The result is a film that feels quintessentially “Swanberg”—performance-driven, purportedly adventurous, and steeped in the specific aesthetics of craft beer culture and modern urban alienation.
The Premise: A Calculated Breakup
The film centers on Wendy (played with characteristic subtlety by Dakota Fanning), who has been in a two-year relationship with Jack (Jake Johnson), a sedate, pragmatic single father. Their relationship is stable, comfortable, and—in the eyes of external observers—potentially stagnant. The central conflict arises when Jack, fearing that he is holding Wendy back from a life of marriage and children that he has no desire to pursue, initiates a radical experiment.
Jack proposes a six-month “break” during which Wendy is encouraged to see other people. His goal is ostensibly altruistic: to ensure that Wendy is truly happy and to confirm that her commitment to him is a choice rather than a default setting. It is a premise that feels both bizarre and undeniably boring, a testament to Swanberg’s obsession with the “stress positions” in which otherwise rational adults place themselves.
Chronology of the Conflict
The film’s narrative arc follows a predictable, if slightly skewed, trajectory.
- The Setup: We are introduced to Wendy, who is clearly feeling the societal pressures of her peers. Her best friend, Lindsay (Debby Ryan), announces a pregnancy, highlighting the widening gap between Wendy’s unconventional arrangement and the traditional milestones of marriage and motherhood.
- The Inciting Incident: Jack, sensing Wendy’s latent resentment regarding his refusal to have more children or marry again, forces the “six-month sabbatical.”
- The Relocation: The story shifts to Anchorage, Alaska—a geographical change that serves more as a backdrop for aesthetic choices than a narrative necessity. Jack, confident in his isolation, mocks the prospect of Wendy finding someone else, joking that the Anchorage dating pool is limited to “sweaty guys who smell like salmon.”
- The Complication: Wendy immediately encounters Chuck (Cory Michael Smith), an old flame who has returned to town. In a sharp reversal of his former “bad boy” persona, Chuck arrives with an over-eager desire for marriage and a seven-child household.
- The Climax: The film descends into a cycle of romantic brinksmanship. Jack attempts to win Wendy back through a series of increasingly frantic maneuvers, while Chuck’s own immaturity and desperation begin to surface. Wendy finds herself caught between two extremes: a man who refuses to change anything and a man who promises to change everything, both of whom present significant red flags.
Supporting Data and Production Context
Swanberg’s choice of Anchorage as a setting is arguably one of the film’s most curious decisions. Despite the vast, dramatic landscape of Alaska, the film remains resolutely interior-focused. The locales—craft beer bars, trivia-night dive bars, suburban kitchens, and local art galleries—could be lifted from any mid-sized American city.
The production, shot on 35mm, opts for a visually inconspicuous style. This choice is deliberate, yet it stands in stark contrast to the volatile emotional states of the characters. While the film captures the grain and texture of celluloid, the performances remain curiously detached. There is a palpable sense of “naturalism” that permeates the acting, but it is a naturalism that occasionally crosses into the uncanny.
The supporting cast, including a notable Zoom cameo from Lamorne Morris (reuniting with his New Girl co-star Johnson), adds a layer of meta-commentary that underscores the film’s interest in familiar, almost sitcom-adjacent tropes. However, the film frequently pulls away from the humor of these interactions to focus on the cold, analytical nature of its protagonists’ choices.
Character Dynamics: Social Propriety and Alienation
One of the most jarring aspects of The Sun Never Sets is the behavior of its leads. Wendy and Jack often seem to operate as if they have never been socialized. Their interactions with others are marked by a startling lack of propriety.
In a pivotal scene, Wendy is on a date at a bar when she spots Chuck. Without a moment of hesitation or concern for the feelings of her current companion, she dismisses him to pursue the interaction with her ex. This behavior is mirrored later by Jack, who abandons his date, Sara (Karley Sciortino), the moment he encounters Wendy in a different establishment.
When Sara finally confronts the absurdity of the situation, asking, “Is this a bit?”, the audience is forced to confront the film’s central conceit. Are these characters meant to be seen as flawed, or are they unintentional sociopaths? The film’s “strangely becalmed” register makes it difficult to tell. The dialogue is delivered with a level of composure that feels completely divorced from the stress and emotional upheaval the characters are inflicting upon one another.
Implications: The Quest for Likability
The ultimate question posed by The Sun Never Sets is whether the modern rom-com can truly exist in a state of honest, externalized volatility. Swanberg has cited the French filmmaker Maurice Pialat as an inspiration—a director who famously prioritized raw, bruising emotionality and the “externalized volatility” of his performers.
Yet, The Sun Never Sets fails to capture that same intensity. The film is caught in a trap of its own making: it wants to be an unflinching look at the messiness of human relationships, but both the director and the cast seem perpetually concerned with remaining “likable” and “smooth.”
There is a disjuncture between the film’s theoretical ambitions and its visual and performative execution. By choosing a style that is visually inconspicuous and a performance style that is restrained, the film softens the very blows it intends to deliver. It creates a vacuum where there should be fire.
The title—a clever nod to the persistent daylight of the Alaskan summer—functions as a metaphor for the film’s own inability to embrace the darkness. Just as the sun never sets on the landscape, the film never truly allows its characters to reach a point of complete emotional breakdown or genuine revelation.
Conclusion: A Beautifully Crafted Trap
The Sun Never Sets is a film that invites scrutiny. It is a work of craft, undeniably, but it is a craft that feels increasingly at odds with the emotional stakes of the story. For fans of Swanberg, it offers the familiar comforts of his aesthetic—the casual banter, the specific urban milieu, the exploration of the “will they, won’t they” dynamic through a modern, cynical lens.
However, for the casual viewer, the film may feel like a puzzle with missing pieces. It operates in a realm of “heightened emotional logic” without ever signaling to the audience that it has left the realm of naturalism. It is a film about difficult people stuck in self-made traps, struggling to find a way out, while the camera watches with a polite, if somewhat detached, interest.
In its attempt to have it all—the wit of a romantic comedy, the grit of a character study, and the aesthetic appeal of a 35mm indie—The Sun Never Sets ultimately settles for being a handsome, frustrating, and incomplete portrait of love in the 21st century. It is a testament to the fact that while a director may mature and their technical skills may sharpen, the most difficult challenge remains the same: the ability to let go of the surface and find the raw, unvarnished truth beneath.
Dwi Wanna
Nana Wu
