How Deep Is the Ocean: An Improvised Character Piece That Feels Like a Memory

Olivia Fildes as Eleanor Gray

There’s something very familiar about How Deep Is the Ocean, Andrew Walsh’s improvised feature set in Melbourne. Not familiar in a "I’ve seen this story before" kind of way, but familiar like something I’ve made. I’m not saying that to be cheeky either. I went to film school. I made short films with my classmates. We shot on borrowed cameras, improvised scenes, used any location we could find without getting kicked out, and hoped something emotional would stick. Watching this film felt like revisiting that exact headspace full of ideas, raw intention, and very little polish.

The Story of Eleanor Gray

The story follows Eleanor Gray (Olivia Fildes), a young woman who drifts into Melbourne with no plan and a past she clearly doesn’t want to unpack. She shows up to a dingy open house and ends up taking a room from Roy (Cris Cochrane), a middle-aged, alcoholic landlord. The room has no lock. She asks no questions. She just moves in with the clothes on her back. It’s a quiet beginning, but also one that tells you everything: this is someone used to disappearing into places.

What follows is a year in Eleanor’s life. She picks up dead-end jobs, dates a married man, quietly avoids emotional intimacy with the one nice guy who genuinely wants to connect with her, Matt, and floats in and out of vague friendships with other outsiders. She’s both observer and participant, but never quite grounded.

Cris Cochrane as Roy, the landlord

A Mood Piece Rather Than a Traditional Story

It’s a mood piece more than a story, really. And that’s both the film’s draw and its downfall. The whole thing is improvised—dialogue, performances, pacing—and while that sometimes gives it a raw, immediate feeling, it also leads to some real drag. Scenes stretch longer than they need to. Dialogue loops or meanders. There’s a lot of telling when it should be showing.

In one early moment, Eleanor is greeted at the house by Matt, who asks if she’s there for the open house too. But then, in literally the next scene, Roy is giving her the tour. It’s redundant, and it’s those small moments that make the editing feel unrefined.

Camera Work and Cinematography

And the camera work? Whew. Some shots are genuinely confusing. Others are so textbook-predictable that I could guess where the frame would move before it did. Again, it reminded me of being back in class, learning about pan shots, Dutch angles, and my favourite, dolly zoom, then immediately trying them out just to tick the box.

There are moments where the cinematography actively works against the actors, placing them in awkward positions or undercutting emotional beats with odd composition. I get wanting to experiment. I’ve done that too. But it has to serve the story, not just the syllabus.

Still, for all the flaws, there’s something here that lingers.

Olivia Fildes: The Heart of the Film

Olivia Fildes carries the film. She’s restrained but present. You get the sense that Eleanor has been through things she won’t speak about, and Fildes gives you just enough to feel the weight without making it melodramatic. Her scenes with Roy are easily the strongest; there’s chemistry there, uncomfortable at times, but oddly compelling. Their connection is what kept me invested more than any of the romantic threads.

The other characters feel more symbolic than real. Charlie (Adam Rowland), the married neighbour, is predictably disappointing. Matt, the nice guy who keeps popping up, is clearly written as the “right” choice, the path Eleanor could take toward stability, but neither gets enough depth to really pull you in. It’s less about them and more about what Eleanor avoids by keeping herself emotionally out of reach.

Adam Rowland as Charlie

The Theme of Drifting

And maybe that’s the point. The film is about drifting. About trying to start over when you're not ready to confront what’s behind you. Melbourne here isn’t the lively, artsy city we see in tourism ads—it’s quiet, grey, unremarkable. In this film, it's a backdrop for inner fog.

The ending sticks, though. Eleanor stands by the ocean. It’s understated, no grand realisation, no dramatic speech. Just her, looking out. Maybe it’s rebirth. Maybe it’s just another stop before she leaves again. I liked that the film didn’t feel the need to tie it up neatly. There’s something honest in that.

Is It Good?

So… is it good? I’m still not sure. It’s rough, sometimes painfully so. But I admire the attempt. It reminded me why we go to film school in the first place—to try things, to feel something, to tell a story that might not be perfect but means something to you. This isn’t a polished indie drama ready for a Netflix slot, but it’s made with a kind of scrappy, personal energy that I respect.

Would I recommend it? Depends on who’s asking. If you like your films slow, loose, raw—and you don’t mind when things fall apart a bit—there’s something here for you. But if you need tight pacing, clean visuals, and strong narrative arcs, this might not land.

Me? I’ve made something like this before. And maybe that’s why I see its flaws, and its heart—so clearly.

If you're curious to see where raw storytelling meets Melbourne’s quiet corners, How Deep Is the Ocean is floating out there on YouTube—waiting to be found.

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Behind the Scenes: A Study in Improvised Filmmaking

Walsh, a filmmaker with over two decades of experience, doesn’t claim to have all the answers. He still sees himself as a student of cinema. His process here wasn’t about traditional screenwriting or rehearsed blocking; it was about emotional discovery. Instead of a full script, he created a set of narrative “chapters”—some fully fleshed out, others only a sentence long, leaving space for interpretation.

Performances weren’t tightly controlled but instead grew out of real-time exploration, shaped by discussions with actors and driven by their instincts on the day. That explains much of what I observed in my review: the redundant dialogue, the awkward blocking, the unpolished camera choices.

Walsh embraces these risks, giving his actors the freedom to move organically within the space. Scenes were often shot wide and uninterrupted, with the cinematographer adjusting to the performers, not the other way around. In that sense, the film isn't built around cinematic precision, but around capturing something emotionally unguarded.

His collaboration with Olivia Fildes especially shows this approach at its best. Together, they shaped Eleanor’s backstory in long, off-camera conversations, blending personal experience with character fiction. It’s no surprise that her quiet performance stood out to me. It was grounded not in scripted beats but in shared understanding and trust.

How Deep Is the Ocean may not follow traditional structure, and it often stumbles where more rigid films might soar. But understanding Walsh’s process reframes those stumbles as part of an intentional exploration. It’s not always cohesive, but for filmmakers and actors drawn to improvisation and character-first storytelling, it’s a compelling example of what happens when you let the camera roll and trust the moment to lead.