Eternity – Film Review

David Freyne’s Eternity is that rare fantasy romantic comedy that embraces whimsy without sacrificing emotional depth. Constructed with a warm, beating heart and a surprising amount of philosophical curiosity, the film uses its fantastical premise to explore the choices we make in life—and the ones that linger long after life is over. Co-written by Freyne and Pat Cunnane, Eternity blends humor, melancholy, metaphysical imagination, and earnest romance with such gentle confidence that its more familiar beats feel fresh again. This is a story about longing, legacy, and the impossible question of who we become when given a second chance to define ourselves. It’s also a highly entertaining star-driven ensemble piece, guided by Elizabeth Olsen’s luminous central performance.

Here, after death, every person is given one week to choose where—and with whom—they will spend the rest of forever. The afterlife, as imagined here, is equal parts bureaucratic maze and dreamlike waiting room, where coordinators attempt to guide the newly deceased toward clarity. For Joan (Olsen), that clarity proves difficult. She is torn between two great loves: Luke (Callum Turner), her first husband, who was killed in a war; and Larry (Miles Teller), the man with whom she rebuilt her life and created a future. Her week in this cosmic limbo becomes a reckoning with memory, grief, nostalgia, and the impossibility of judging the worth of one’s relationships from a distance.

Freyne and Cunnane’s screenplay is both deeply funny and quietly devastating. The afterlife is peppered with wry bureaucratic humor—think Beetlejuice by way of The Good Place, but less cynical and more humane. Joan is assigned an upbeat yet tightly wound coordinator named Ryan, played with scene-stealing precision by John Early. Larry, meanwhile, finds himself under the guidance of Anna (Da’Vine Joy Randolph), whose mix of tough love and warmth grounds even the loopiest moments. Randolph, in particular, gives the afterlife its texture, sketching out a character who has clearly shepherded countless confused souls but still cares deeply about each case. Through them, the film finds its tonal balance, using comedy as a pathway toward vulnerability rather than a distraction from it.

Yet the heart of the film belongs to the triangle between Joan, Larry, and Luke. Their dynamic is handled with uncommon maturity. Olsen’s portrayal of Joan is her strongest work in years—nuanced, delicate, full of cracks and unfinished feelings. Joan isn’t torn because she’s indecisive or confused; she’s torn because both loves represent different versions of herself. With Luke, played with quiet tenderness by Callum Turner, she remembers possibility, youth, and a life interrupted before it could be fully lived. Their moments together feel floaty and warm, like living inside a memory. Turner’s performance is haunting in a subtle way; he embodies a man out of time who still radiates the intensity of a past love.

Larry, in contrast, represents commitment, resilience, and the messy beauty of building a life through hardship. Miles Teller brings surprising softness to the role, blending humor and insecurity into a portrait of someone terrified of losing the person he loved so fully. Teller and Olsen share a lived-in chemistry—subtle gestures, half-finished sentences, familiar frustrations—that evokes decades spent together. Their scenes give the film an anchor, reminding viewers that love in adulthood often looks less like fireworks and more like routine, familiarity, comfort, and shared scars. The film never paints one love as inherently superior; instead, it respects the emotional validity of both.

Freyne supports these performances with thoughtful world-building. The afterlife isn’t simply a gimmick but a layered setting designed to push the characters into reflection. It’s a place shaped by memories—sometimes literally—and the production design leans into the surreal without overwhelming the quieter moments. Neutral-toned offices blend into foggy landscapes where the past and present blur. Each visual choice reinforces the emotional experience: this is not a realm of answers but of introspection. Freyne proves adept at creating a space that feels both magical and eerily bureaucratic, the perfect backdrop for a story about accountability and desire.

The film’s pacing is gentle and meditative, occasionally to a fault. At roughly two hours, Eternity indulges in some narrative detours, especially in the second act, when Joan revisits pivotal memories. While these scenes are rich in emotion, a tighter edit might have strengthened the film’s rhythm. Still, Freyne’s interest in character over plot ultimately pays off. By lingering in these moments, the film emphasizes that love is not a cinematic montage—it’s the accumulation of small choices and quiet turning points.

One of the film’s most affecting elements is its exploration of grief not as a singular event but as something that reshapes the self. Joan is not simply choosing a partner but choosing which version of herself she wants to carry into eternity. The screenplay’s sensitivity to this tension elevates the film beyond typical genre boundaries. The emotional stakes feel real even as the film plays with metaphysical concepts, and the comedy never undermines the sincerity of the situation.

There are standout comedic moments—Early, especially, is a fountain of oddball brilliance—but the film’s humor is rooted in empathy. Freyne respects that laughter can be a form of healing, especially when staring down the unimaginable. He also trusts the audience to sit with complex feelings. The third act is unexpectedly moving, offering clarity without reducing Joan’s choice to an easy answer. The resolution feels earned, heartbreaking, and hopeful all at once.

Olsen’s final scenes in particular demonstrate her skill at conveying emotional contradictions. Her performance anchors the entire narrative, guiding viewers through a character navigating centuries of feeling within the span of a week. Teller and Turner match her beautifully, mirroring the film’s larger themes: how love can be both transformative and limiting, freeing and frightening. Randolph and Early round out the ensemble with energetic, compassionate turns that deepen the film’s world without overshadowing the central story.

Ultimately, Eternity works as both an imaginative romantic comedy and a resonant meditation on love’s imprint on the soul. Freyne’s direction is tender and patient, and the screenplay digs into the complexity of long-term relationships with unusual honesty. The film is visually enchanting, emotionally engaging, and anchored by a trio of excellent performances. While its pacing may occasionally meander, the overall experience is rich and rewarding.

Warm, inventive, and deeply human, Eternity is a spirited reminder that the choices we make in life echo far beyond it—and that love, in all its forms, is worth revisiting, reconsidering, and sometimes redefining.