Everything about Glenrothan, from actor-turned-director Brian Cox, suggests a reflective, character-driven drama about family, regret and reconciliation. With a distinguished cast led by Cox himself alongside Alan Cumming and Shirley Henderson, this ought to carry a certain gravitas. Instead, it struggles to find its footing, resulting in a film that feels oddly disjointed— beautiful to look at, certainly, but dramatically empty.
At its core, Glenrothan explores familiar territory: estranged brothers, buried trauma, and the long shadow of a difficult upbringing. Cox plays Sandy, a whisky distillery owner reaching out to his long-absent sibling Donal (Cumming), who returns to the Highlands after decades away. The themes here are rich with potential, yet the screenplay by David Ashton reduces them to a string of clichés. The film rarely trusts its audience, and the moments intended to carry the most weight are somehow the least convincing.
Glenrothan’s biggest flaw lies in its tonal inconsistency. It veers awkwardly between introspective melodrama drama and comedy, never quite settling into either. Flashbacks are deployed with little subtlety, disturbing the narrative flow and padding out character backstories in a way that feels more mechanical than meaningful. The pacing is equally erratic, lingering too long on inconsequential scenes before rushing through moments that might have offered genuine insight.
Performances, too, suffer under the strain of the script. Cumming appears uncertain how to pitch his character, swinging between charm and caricature. Cox, while compelling in isolated moments, doesn’t quite translate his strengths as an actor into assured direction; his handling of key scenes lacks finesse. Dialogue often lands with a thud, weighed down by exposition and overwrought sentiment.
The clear standout is Henderson, who brings a much-needed sense of authenticity and restraint as Jess, Donal’s childhood sweetheart and the real brains behind the distillery. While others succumb to the film’s tendency towards overacting, she remains grounded and quietly affecting, once again proving herself one of Britain’s most underappreciated talents.
Meanwhile, Alexandra Shipp (Tick, Tick… Boom!, Anyone But You) is given very little to work with, but her performance as Donal’s exasperated adult daughter remains impressive nevertheless.
Visually, the film is undeniably striking. The Scottish Highlands are captured with a painterly eye, though it’s hardly a challenge to make such landscapes look beautiful. Yet even this becomes part of the problem: the film leans too heavily on its setting, using it as a substitute for emotional depth. There’s a lingering sense that Glenrothan has been shaped with an eye on international, particularly American, audiences, smoothing out its cultural specificity in favour of broader, more marketable appeal.
In the end, despite its admirable intentions, Glenrothan is a muddled and overly familiar effort. It gestures towards profundity but never quite earns it.
