The Extraordinary Miss Flower ★★★★

Released: 9 May 2025

Director: Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard

Starring: Emilíana Torrini

There are films that simply play before your eyes, and then there are films that sing to your soul. The Extraordinary Miss Flower falls into the latter camp. This is cinematic storytelling on another plane — an experimental, emotionally charged swirl of performance, music, theatre, and love letters drenched in longing. And I was here for it.

Directed by the inventive minds of Iain Forsyth and Jane Pollard — best known for the deeply atmospheric 20,000 Days on Earth — The Extraordinary Miss Flower isn’t your average biopic, music doc, or period piece. Instead, it floats in a dreamy in-between space, blurring lines and boldly strutting into uncharted creative territory. The result is a kaleidoscopic tribute to creativity, love, longing, and the magic that can be unlocked when stories are shared — even decades after they were written.

The film is inspired by a real discovery: a suitcase full of letters sent to a woman named Geraldine Flower in the 1960s and 70s. They’re poetic, passionate, and brimming with romantic intrigue. These letters sparked something in acclaimed Icelandic singer/songwriter Emilíana Torrini, who returned to the studio after a long hiatus, compelled to turn Geraldine’s hidden life into song, spectacle, and storytelling.

Rather than follow a linear documentary or narrative format, Miss Flower becomes something far more immersive. It’s part live gig, part theatrical dreamscape, part memory play — and somehow, it works. Emilíana Torrini performs on screen with her band, framed by lush visuals, cinematic lighting, and surreal design. These performances are interwoven with dramatic readings of the letters by a stacked cast of musicians, artists, and actors — from the ever-droll Richard Ayoade to the sultry tones of Nick Cave and the narration of Sophie Ellis-Bextor. Caroline Catz plays Geraldine herself, imbuing the role with grace, warmth, and a quiet yearning that lingers long after the credits roll.

But let’s be honest — this is not a film that holds your hand. It doesn’t explain itself too much. It’s not here to provide clear-cut answers about who Geraldine really was or how she responded to the love and desire poured into her letters. Instead, it asks you to sit with the feeling of it all. To soak in the music, the emotion, the colour, the longing. To listen — not just to the words, but to the silence between them. And when you’re open to that? The film becomes a hypnotic experience.

The production design by Emma Rios is stunning, full of whimsical, sometimes surreal textures — a visual language that mirrors the film’s emotional vulnerability. Erik Wilson’s cinematography (yes, of Paddington and The Secret of Marrowbone) captures everything with grace and intimacy. There are moments where you feel like you’re sitting in a cabaret bar in someone’s subconscious. Choreography by Kate Coyne adds another layer of theatricality, while the editing by Marnie Hollande and Luke Clayton Thompson gives the film a gentle yet electric pulse.

Still, it won’t be for everyone. Some viewers may find the structure a little too abstract or self-indulgent — and at times, it does lean into art-house esoterica. There are moments when the dream-like rhythm threatens to float away entirely. But I didn’t mind. In fact, I leaned in deeper.

What grounded it all for me? The music. Oh, the music! Emilíana Torrini’s voice is a treasure — smoky, playful, vulnerable, and full of soul. Her performances here feel raw and deeply personal, like she’s channelling not just her own emotions, but Geraldine’s too. The eclectic, genre-blending score — guided by musical director Simon Byrt — swings from stripped-back ballads to avant-garde art-pop, and every note feels earned.

And here’s where I get a bit personal: I’ve always had a deep love for live musicals. Going to the theatre in London is something I do regularly with my partner — it’s our shared passion and our way to stay connected to creativity and each other. There’s just something about music meeting story, meeting stage, that unlocks something profound in me.

So when a film like The Extraordinary Miss Flower comes along — a film that feels like a live musical, that pulses with theatrical rhythm, that uses sound and movement and poetic fragments to create emotional resonance — I feel it deep in my bones. I’m reminded why I fell in love with storytelling in the first place. Why the stage lights flickering on still gives me goosebumps. Why I crave moments that aren’t just watched, but felt.

This isn’t just a story about Geraldine Flower. It’s a story about connection. About how art can resurrect the past. How desire, creativity, and vulnerability continue to ripple through time. How even a forgotten suitcase of old letters can birth an entire cinematic fever dream that speaks to our shared human ache to be remembered, loved, and understood.

The Extraordinary Miss Flower is one of the most unique films I’ve seen all year. It’s tender, weird, gorgeously composed, and defiantly unafraid to be different, reminding me how powerful it is when filmmakers break rules and follow instinct. When musicians let their stories unfold not just in lyrics, but in performance and presence. And when the past is honoured not with dry facts, but with wild, blooming, unapologetic imagination.