“Another Year” Review: Nothing Big Happens, and Somehow Everything Does

Nothing Big Happens, and Somehow Everything Does

Mike Leigh has a quiet knack for pulling back the curtain on ordinary life and showing us just how extraordinary it really is. Another Year (2010) is no exception. It’s not trying to grab your attention with noise or spectacle—and that’s kind of the point. Leigh just lets it unfold, gently tracing the shape of love, isolation, and all that messy stuff in the middle, as the seasons come and go like they always do.
It’s no wonder it holds a 93% on Rotten Tomatoes. But numbers aside, this film lingers in a different way—it gets under your skin.

At the heart of Another Year are Tom (Jim Broadbent) and Gerri (Ruth Sheen), a long-married couple who are, in many ways, the emotional anchor of the film. They’re warm, grounded, and quietly content—a portrait of companionship that feels lived-in rather than idealized. Orbiting their calm center is Mary (Lesley Manville), a friend who, despite her smiles and chatter, is clearly adrift. Mary is divorced, lonely, and desperate for something—though she probably couldn’t say exactly what.

Manville’s performance is raw in the best way. She plays Mary with jittery energy and fragile charm, masking pain with forced brightness. You can feel her need for connection bubbling just under the surface, spilling over in moments of awkward vulnerability—like her misguided affection for Tom and Gerri’s son, which is both heartbreaking and hard to watch. There’s no villain here, just a woman trying to outrun her own reflection.

Leigh doesn’t offer solutions. That’s part of what makes the film hit so hard. Mary’s pain isn’t fixed by a pep talk or a plot twist. Instead, her loneliness is gently contrasted with Tom and Gerri’s quiet togetherness, making the absence of connection all the more stark. The seasons change, but for Mary, not much does. That cycle—spring to winter, hope to sorrow—echoes the emotional loops we all get caught in.

Seasons of Companionship: The Power of Connection

The garden’s always there, quietly in the background—but it says a lot. Tom and Gerri tend to it lovingly, a visual metaphor for the care they put into their relationship. There’s something beautiful in that simplicity—growing things, sticking around, showing up. Their life isn’t perfect, but it’s solid, and in its own way, that’s extraordinary.

Around them, other characters drift in and out, each carrying their own baggage. Through it all, Leigh doesn’t judge. He simply observes, with a kind of gentle honesty that’s rare in films about relationships.

It’s not just about love. It’s about the different shapes connection can take—friendship, family, even fleeting moments of empathy—and what happens when those bonds fray or fail to form at all.

The Complexities of Happiness

What Another Year nails so well is that happiness isn’t one-size-fits-all. It’s not always about being cheerful or problem-free. For Tom and Gerri, happiness is more about balance—knowing who they are, leaning on each other, being kind. They’re not trying to fix the people around them, but they’re present.

Mary’s caught in a bit of a spiral. The drinking, the awkward flirting, the pretending everything’s fine—it all adds up to someone chasing happiness but never quite getting there. Leigh never laughs at her, though. Instead, he shows us how easy it is to lose your way, and how hard it can be to ask for help or admit the truth.

And maybe that’s the point. Some people grow into happiness. Others chase it. And some, heartbreakingly, just keep missing it by inches.

A Year of Truth

Another Year isn’t the kind of film you walk away from with a smile and a life lesson. It doesn’t wrap things up neatly. Doesn’t send you off with some big lesson. But it is real. It’s full of moments that feel uncannily familiar—uncomfortable silences, unspoken resentments, quiet kindnesses.

Nothing wild happens, no big finale. It’s just folks muddling through, year after year, trying to make sense of it all. That’s what makes it so powerful.

Leigh doesn’t spoon-feed us answers or wrap things up with a bow. He trusts us to sit with the discomfort, to recognize pieces of ourselves in these characters. And in doing so, Another Year becomes something rare: a film that truly gets what it means to be human.

If you’re looking for something honest, tender, and deeply reflective—something that doesn’t flinch away from life’s quieter heartbreaks—this film is well worth your time.

A Personal Reflection

One of the things I loved — or maybe respected, which isn’t always the same — was how Leigh lets silence do the heavy lifting. Sometimes a pause between lines says more than a monologue ever could. It’s like the film trusts you to get it without spoon-feeding the emotions. And yeah, sometimes that meant I sat there, unsure of what to feel. But isn’t that kind of the point?

Another Year doesn’t offer solutions. No big emotional catharsis, no third-act transformation. It’s just… life. Messy, generous, a little sad. Kind of like how you feel walking home after spending an evening with people who have their lives a bit more figured out than you do.

And then it ends. You sit there, the credits roll, and you’re not even sure what you’re supposed to take away. But something lingers. Like the feeling you get when you remember a conversation days later and realize what it really meant. It stays with you. Not loudly, not obviously. Just there. Quiet, but heavy.

Films That Sit With the Lonely Stuff

Mike Leigh’s Another Year is one of those films that doesn’t shout its meaning—it just quietly breaks your heart. It’s about the slow, soft ache of loneliness. Of watching life carry on for everyone else while you quietly drift further from the shore. If that kind of melancholy hits you in the gut (in a good, cathartic way), here are three more films that explore alienation in similarly powerful, painfully human ways.

1. The Worst Person in the World (2021)

Julie floats through jobs, relationships, cities — like someone trying on lives instead of clothes. And it’s not that she’s incapable of love or commitment. She just can’t seem to land. And while that’s frustrating at times (you will yell at the screen), it’s also deeply relatable if you’ve ever felt like you’re watching your life happen from just a step to the side.

It’s romantic, but not really a romance. It’s sad, but also weirdly light on its feet. And it nails that feeling of being alienated not by others, but by your own uncertainty.

2. The Last Days of Disco (1998)

This might seem like an odd pick—young people in NYC, nightclubs, sharp dialogue? Not exactly the gray skies and aching silences of Another Year, right? But The Last Days of Disco is kind of sneaky like that—it’s quietly soaked in alienation, even if everyone’s dressed well and talking fast. It’s about people who are trying to connect—desperately, awkwardly, half-sincerely—while never quite getting there.

The characters talk a lot (like, a lot), but they rarely say anything. It’s full of conversations that feel like missed connections—intelligent, funny, but ultimately isolating. And beneath the stylish surface, there’s a quiet sense that these people are just flailing for meaning. Alone in a crowd, you know?

3. Past Lives (2023)

This film is a masterclass in stillness. It’s about two childhood friends who reconnect years later, now adults in completely different countries, with different lives. And yet—there’s something between them that never really left.

What makes Past Lives special is how gently it handles that sense of emotional distance. No one’s a villain. No one’s broken. They’re just… not in sync. And the film makes that feel both deeply sad and totally okay.