While it may not be particularly well-known outside of a core group of fanatics, I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing is inadvertently one of the most important Canadian films ever made, both for what it says, and specifically what it represents as a whole. Written and directed by Patricia Rozema in her feature-length directorial debut, weaving together the story of a young woman who seemingly lacks direction in her life, which she almost finds through being introduced to an older woman who works as the curator of a small boutique gallery where she finds temporary employment, the film is a work of fascinating complexity, a detailed but captivating comedy that teeters between outrageous humour and deep melancholy that guides the story and allows the director to produce a moving commentary on the nature of life, as seen through the eyes of someone who isn’t quite sure where she fits into when it comes to the world at large, but who knows that she has the potential to achieve something magnificent should she be given the opportunity. I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing carries itself with a very striking kind of upbeat energy, being a remarkably well-composed comedy that feels like the kind of audacious debut that only come around sporadically within a generation, and which serve to a delicate, beautifully engaging film about a number of compelling themes, each one drawn from a place of genuine interest in exploring a world that many view as simplistic, but which is rendered as inescapably beautiful under Rozema’s stunning direction.

On the surface, I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing doesn’t seem like much beyond a vaguely experimental comedy about a young woman navigating her hostile surroundings. There is likely some degree of reality to this side of the story, with Rozema having experienced similar kinds of rejection as the artists at the heart of this film. The story of how this film came into being, both from its conception when she was working as a production assistant on another film, and the circumstances around its creation as a singular work in itself (oscillating between short film and teleplay, until it was finally determined that a slightly longer version of this story would both help it feel more complete, and allow the director to realize all her artistic curiosities without too much limitation), is truly compelling, and shows how much of Rozema is embedded in the fabric of the film as a whole. As a whole, I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing is an incredibly ambitious film, the kind of unhinged artistic expression that can only be produced when someone is as dedicated to constructing their version, they allow themselves to surrender to a kind of go-for-broke technique that could be seen as overly twee, but which works remarkably well in context, especially when Rozema has as much authorial control, allowing her to navigate the subject matter without too much difficulty, leading to quite an invigorating but also wildly entertaining work of pure artistic ambition from a promising young director who would somehow help define her national cinema, and how it embraces those who make films not for the sole purpose of entertaining the masses, but more niche, engaging stories.

This all points to the central theme of I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing, which is that this is primarily a film about searching for one’s identity in a world that is growing increasingly more challenging for those who find themselves failing to fit into some predetermined category. There’s a whimsy to the film that undercuts some of its more sobering ideas, and which helps us understand the precise direction in which the film is aiming to go. The best way to describe the film is as a metatextual comedy about searching for a sense of belonging in an environment that tends to favour individuality only when it is a useful commodity, which is contrary to the quirks of the protagonist, whose worldview is one that could be misconstrued as a liability when it comes to finding that elusive feeling of unimpeachable joy. I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing is an inherently queer film, with the main character being a young woman who is questioning her identity, viewing every experience as a step forward in uncovering her understanding of desire and love, which is not a primary theme here, but certainly one that is very important, especially within the context of the film as a whole. Identity is not an easy subject to explore, especially with the degree of candour with which we find Rozema telling this story, and while it isn’t autobiographical in a literal sense, we have to wonder to what extent the director herself viewed herself in the main character, whose journey may not be directly related to her, but rather reflects a sense of introspection and nuance that can only come from someone with experience with this kind of deep loneliness and sincere longing for the feeling of joy that comes with finally carving out a comfortable place in a world that often doesn’t make much sense.

I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing is anchored by three absolutely spellbinding performances, which plays into the central concept of exploring identity. For a film as ambigious in direction, the story really does well to emphasize the character-based aspects of the film, with the interactions between the three leads being central to its success. The actors turn in exceptional performances that leave very little room for doubt that what they’re doing is absolutely incredible. Sheila McCarthy is a brilliant lead, playing the role of Polly Vandersma with an impish innocence that contributes to the sometimes ethereal quality that Rozema is so frequently aiming to convey. It takes a lot of work to make such a character not only likeable, but genuinely endearing, and McCarthy avoids becoming a bundle of tics, instead developing the character with a careful blend of eccentricity and earthly complexity. She’s sharply contrasted by Paule Baillargeon, whose statuesque beauty and almost intimidating grace makes her the perfect candidate for the older Gabrielle, whose stoicism conceals a very deep sense of insecurity, comparable to that of her new employee, in whom she unknowingly incites a crisis of identity. Ann-Marie MacDonald, a close personal friend of the director, has the smallest of the three roles, but somehow leaves the most significant impression, with her brief screentime adding an element of mystery to a film that benefits considerably from her presence. Based on the exceptional work being done by these actors (as well as a few on the periphery), I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing proves that some of the best performances come from the most unlikely sources, and that throughout this film, we are constantly surprised at the depths to which the actors are willing to go to bring these characters to life.

It’s almost impossible to not fall head-over-heels in love with I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing, which this is a film of incredible complexity and cherished wisdom, which is all part and parcel of a truly invigorating work of deeply sentimental earnestness, which is primarily pushed this film towards being an unconventional masterpiece of arthouse filmmaking. Independent cinema has always been notoriously accommodating to these kinds of stories, and it warrants an abundance of adoration based purely on its ability to look beneath the surface of someone questioning their identity, and expanding it far beyond this relatively simple story. The film is best described as a meta-textual commentary on the social circumstances in which it was produced, a snapshot of Canada (and specifically Toronto) in the 1980s, an era of a lot of interesting change, which is reflected so beautifully throughout this film. It’s not surprising that the protagonist of I’ve Heard the Mermaids Singing is a photographer, since the film orbits all around her framing of the human condition through the lens of her camera, which serves as her entry-point into a world that both excites and confuses her. It’s beautiful, hilarious and heartwarming, and a film that reminds us of the unbreakable power of the human spirit, which is the foundation for this poignant and achingly funny exploration of a version of the world lost in time.