There’s a strange kind of quiet ache that lingers after watching A Family. Mees Peijnenburg’s film doesn’t rush toward drama or sensationalism—it doesn’t need to. Instead, it sits gently in the rooms, the corners, the empty spaces of a house that feels like it’s holding its breath, and it lets you watch a family unravel through the eyes of the children caught in the middle. What stays with you is not the shouting or the fights, but the small, fragile moments: the tremble of a hand, the pause before a word is spoken, the way silence itself becomes a language.
Nina, portrayed by Celeste Holsheimer, is sixteen, and from the very first frame, you feel the weight she carries. Her energy is restless, almost radiant—the kind of body and mind that moves in dance, that stretches toward light even when the world is shadowed. Dance isn’t just her hobby; it’s her refuge, a space where she can be herself, away from the invisible tug-of-war between her parents. Maria (Carice van Houten) and Jacob (Pieter Embrechts) are locked in the quiet violence of divorce, each craving Nina’s allegiance and affection, and in their tug, they threaten to break the one person who can’t yet fully protect herself. Holsheimer conveys everything that can’t be spoken—through a glance, a stiffened shoulder, the way she retreats into herself when the air becomes too heavy. Watching her, you feel the push and pull of guilt, loyalty, and a desire to simply be free, and it’s heartbreakingly real.
Eli, her younger brother, is a study in contrast. Played by Finn Vogels, Eli’s approach to the chaos is quieter but no less intense. He clings to a sense of normalcy that no longer exists, and swimming becomes his sanctuary. In the water, he can escape, even for a moment, the storm his parents have created. Vogels’ performance is understated yet powerful: every pause, every wordless stare carries weight, showing how a child can shoulder more than anyone should ask. Together, Nina and Eli embody two sides of the same fracture—different rhythms, different coping mechanisms, yet inseparably bound.
What makes A Family so tender is that the parents are never demonized, even when their flaws are painfully clear. Van Houten’s Maria is desperate, human, and volatile, and Embrechts’ Jacob is equally caught in the web of his own grief and confusion. Peijnenburg never simplifies them into villains or heroes. Instead, he lets the children’s experiences breathe, letting the story’s emotional gravity rest squarely on Nina and Eli. And it is extraordinary to watch how much life, resilience, and love exists in the spaces between adult mistakes.
The cinematography mirrors this intimacy. The camera lingers on small gestures—the trembling of Nina’s fingers, the way Eli hesitates before diving into the pool—details that feel like whispers of a life under pressure. Light washes over the scenes in soft, hazy warmth, making even moments of tension feel alive and human, as though you are peering into the fragile pulse of this family’s reality. There’s a poetry to it that doesn’t call attention to itself but instead allows you to inhabit the world fully, to feel the loneliness, longing, and tenderness of these young lives.
I loved the way Peijnenburg structures the film around the siblings. First Nina, then Eli, allowing each perspective its own rhythm and space. Their stories echo one another without redundancy. The shift between them creates a layered understanding of their home, their parents, and each other. And by the end, the reconciliation is subtle, quiet, imperfect—but real. It’s not about tidy endings or lessons learned. It’s about the recognition that even in brokenness, people can hold each other up.
A Family doesn’t rely on melodrama or cinematic fireworks. Its beauty lies in observation, in the tender attention to the small moments that carry the weight of growing up under circumstances too large to control. It’s about the invisible labor children perform to maintain balance, the quiet rebellion that keeps them whole, and the fragile, unspoken love that sustains them. Watching Nina and Eli navigate this landscape is heartbreaking and beautiful in equal measure, and it reminded me that family isn’t only those who made you—it’s also those who stand by you when everything else is falling apart.
With Holsheimer and Vogels anchoring the film with luminous performances, and van Houten and Embrechts giving nuanced support, Peijnenburg has created a meditation on love, loss, and the intricate threads that bind us. A Family is tender, unflinching, and deeply human—a quiet storm you’ll feel long after it ends.
Director: Mees Peijnenburg
Cast: Celeste Holsheimer, Pieter Embrechts, Carice van Houten
Producers: Iris Otten, Nathalie van der Burg, Sander van Meurs
Composer: Annelotte Coster
Cinematographer: Jasper Wolf
Editor: Imre Reutelingsperger