Meanwhile on Earth Christian Review
Jérémy Clapin’s Meanwhile on Earth feels less like a film and more like an atmospheric dive into grief’s darkest waters, a place where faith and longing wrestle with silence. This isn’t the type of movie that hands you answers or clean resolutions; instead, it nudges you to sit with a world of feeling, of questions about what we do with loss, and where we find meaning in its wake. But for Christian viewers, this film presents an intriguing opportunity to reflect on how our faith speaks to grief and the instinctive drive for connection that rises out of it.
At its core, Meanwhile on Earth is about what happens to us when we lose something—someone—that feels fundamental to our world. Clapin doesn’t try to dissect the psychology of grief or hand us easy platitudes. Instead, he builds an entire aesthetic around it: a muted, almost otherworldly tone suffuses everything, like a fog you can’t quite see through but feel all around you. The muted cinematography by Robrecht Heyvaert and Dan Levy’s haunting score don’t just add to the atmosphere; they take on the role of unspoken characters, casting a quiet, surreal beauty over the whole journey, a journey that for Christian viewers may resonate with the deep and haunting echo of spiritual longing.
The Alluring, Invisible Path of Grief
Clapin is interested in grief not just as an emotion but as a force—a kind of siren call pulling his characters into what feels like a netherworld of memory, regret, and yearning. If you’ve ever felt the raw ache of missing someone, the feeling of talking to someone who’s not there, the wish to bring them back in even the smallest way, Meanwhile on Earth doesn’t just get it; it brings you into that space. And in this space, grief takes on an almost otherworldly power—like a possession, a weight pressing down, not just in the mind, but in the spirit.
Christians know this feeling, too. Our faith speaks of sorrow, of an earthbound ache that longs for eternity, and Meanwhile on Earth holds that ache right up to the light. In some ways, it mirrors our own beliefs about the impact of separation, of being cut off from those we love. For Clapin’s characters, the film implies that this separation is final—or at least unclear—and their search is driven by a hunger that feels unanswerable.
For Christians, the unanswerable takes on a different shape. Faith teaches us that we are connected to something larger, that we are not alone in our grief, that it is bound to something eternal. This is where Meanwhile on Earth becomes particularly haunting because it suggests the yearning without necessarily pointing to the same kind of hope that Christians find in reunion and the promise of resurrection. It’s as if Clapin draws the map of human longing but leaves the destination blank, hinting that the journey may be the point, even if the ending isn’t clear.
The Power of Visuals to Evoke Faith’s Deepest Questions
In Meanwhile on Earth, grief and hope take on a kind of visual language. Clapin’s use of animation—unexpected, woven almost seamlessly into live-action—adds an ethereal, dreamlike quality to the journey. These animated interludes don’t just serve as storytelling devices; they open windows into the soul, visually painting emotions that are hard to put into words. Christians might recognize in these sequences a symbolic portrayal of the soul’s journey, a quest through shadows to find light.
Clapin’s style has often been compared to other works in sci-fi, even to films like Jonathan Glazer’s Under the Skin, which look at humanity from an alien or detached perspective. But Meanwhile on Earth brings it closer, more intimately, showing us the human side of suffering. Megan Northman’s performance embodies this perfectly—she isn’t on a mission or a crusade; she’s a person stumbling through life, feeling her way forward in a mist of memories and longings. Her vulnerability is real, resonating deeply with anyone who’s felt that void, that urge to reconnect with something or someone lost. It’s an emotional expression that feels both universal and deeply personal, capturing a kind of silent communion with those who aren’t with us but are still somehow present.
For Christian viewers, there is something profoundly spiritual in this portrayal. Northman’s journey mirrors a familiar desire, almost a prayer, to reach beyond what we can see. This isn’t about a loud faith or overt theology but rather a quiet, searching faith—a faith that recognizes the longing we carry is part of our nature, perhaps even part of our purpose. This quiet tension reminds us of the deep, unspoken promise within the Christian faith: that grief, though powerful, does not have the final say.
Faith, Silence, and the Space Between
What Meanwhile on Earth leaves with us is a deep ambiguity, a kind of “in-between” place where questions linger and resolutions fade. This might be frustrating for those looking for a definitive answer, especially when we’re talking about life, death, and the hope for something more. Christians, however, might find something meaningful in this ambiguity. It’s an artistic space that reflects the “now and not yet” of our own beliefs—a waiting for the fullness of what we hope for, a resting in the promise of something yet unseen.
In many ways, the ending of Meanwhile on Earth is its own quiet statement. It doesn’t conclude so much as it pauses, leaving room for interpretation, for each viewer to fill in what comes next. This is where Clapin’s approach aligns with faith in a way that feels unexpectedly poignant. Christian faith acknowledges that we see only in part, as through a glass dimly, until we know fully. Clapin, through this open-ended finish, seems to respect that mystery, allowing viewers to sit in the tension without feeling forced into a resolution.
Why Meanwhile on Earth Sticks with You
What Meanwhile on Earth offers isn’t a neat message, but it does linger, stirring up thoughts about faith, love, and loss that feel like echoes, returning long after the credits have rolled. Dan Levy’s score and Heyvaert’s cinematography, with their quiet, ghostly beauty, echo this feeling—of things seen and unseen, things lost and not quite forgotten. There’s a kind of sacredness here, an atmosphere that reminds Christian viewers of their own hope in what can’t be fully seen or touched.
For those grounded in faith, Meanwhile on Earth may feel incomplete in its view of grief. It presents the longing but doesn’t quite bring it to redemption. Yet in a strange way, that makes it more authentic, more honest. The journey, the struggle, the silence—all of it feels real because, often, that’s where grief takes us. And faith, as Christians know, is not an escape from that struggle but a companion within it.
A Thoughtful Invitation to Reflect on Faith, Loss, and Longing
In the end, Meanwhile on Earth resonates as a subtle call to reflect on where we find hope, how we deal with loss, and what we’re really searching for in the middle of it all. Christians watching this film may find themselves feeling both challenged and comforted. It is a reminder that while art may not always point us to faith directly, it can still reflect parts of our journey, inviting us to see beauty, connection, and the touch of the eternal in our human experiences. It’s the kind of film that doesn’t end when you finish watching; instead, it leaves a small, haunting note in your soul—a reminder of the paths we walk, and the faith that carries us forward, even when the way is unseen.
