‘In the Blink of an Eye’ Review
Three Timelines, One Heartbeat, and a Sci-Fi Swing Worth Taking
It is always best to begin with a great idea. In the Blink of an Eye has one of those ideas that feels vast and intimate at the same time. Andrew Stanton has built a career on stories about connection, loneliness, and the fragile hope that keeps us reaching for one another. From robots wandering abandoned landscapes to travelers lost on distant planets, his work often circles the same question. What does it mean to be alive, and what do we owe each other while we are here?
This film pushes that question across thousands of years.
Written by Colby Day, In the Blink of an Eye unfolds across three timelines that gradually mirror and refract one another. It is an ambitious structure, the kind of narrative gamble that feels increasingly rare in mainstream cinema. This does not feel designed by committee. It feels personal. It feels like a filmmaker reaching for something cosmic and sincere.
The film opens with a fleeting glimpse at the origins of life itself before dropping us into 45,000 BC. The shift is immediate and immersive. We meet a Neanderthal family forced from their home, struggling to survive in a brutal landscape. Thorn, played with striking physical vulnerability by Jorge Vargas, is gravely injured. Hera, portrayed by Tanaya Beatty, becomes the emotional spine of the family, holding everything together through sheer force of will. Their daughter Lark, played by Skywalker Hughes, carries a quiet resilience that feels almost mythic.
They have no modern language, no safety net, no illusion of comfort. They have instinct and devotion. Stanton directs these sequences with confidence and restraint. There is very little dialogue. Movement, glances, and gesture carry the emotional weight. The hair, makeup, and wardrobe work are exceptional, grounding the segment in tactile reality. The landscapes are breathtaking, but it is the intimacy that lingers. Their love is recognizable. Their fear is recognizable. Their exhaustion is recognizable.
This is where the film feels most elemental. Watching them build fire or tend to one another becomes quietly profound. At one point I found myself thinking that making fire is their version of paying taxes. Survival is routine. Extinction is always near. It is cinema at its most visual and most human.
The present-day timeline shifts to Claire, a driven anthropologist played by Rashida Jones. She studies ancient hominin remains, piecing together lives long gone. Her work connects directly to the prehistoric story, not through spectacle but through inquiry. These bones once belonged to people who loved, feared, and endured. Now they are artifacts.
Daveed Diggs brings warmth and ease to Greg, a fellow student who becomes Claire’s partner. Their relationship unfolds in small, grounded moments. Conversations are tentative and sincere. Diggs gives Greg a gentle emotional intelligence that keeps the dynamic from feeling familiar. Their story is quieter than the others, but it reinforces the film’s central idea. We live. We connect. We become memory.
Then Stanton and Day leap forward four centuries.
On a spacecraft bound for a distant planet, Kate McKinnon plays Coakley, a lone caretaker of human embryos meant to seed life elsewhere. A sentient system named ROSCO, voiced by Rhona Rees, is her only companion. When a disease begins threatening the ship’s oxygen producing plants, survival becomes uncertain.
This segment carries a contemplative tone. McKinnon balances humor with exhaustion, portraying a woman who has been alone long enough to feel time bending around her. The dynamic between Coakley and ROSCO becomes unexpectedly moving, less about spectacle and more about companionship in isolation.
Across these timelines, Stanton and Day aim to show that humanity is a continuum. The acorn motif that threads through the film becomes a simple but effective symbol of continuity and renewal. Thomas Newman’s score deepens that sense of emotional resonance, guiding the audience through transitions with grace.
The film’s strength lies in its belief. It believes in interconnectedness. It believes that even the smallest gestures ripple outward. While the structure occasionally feels more focused on ideas than plot mechanics, the ambition is admirable. Stanton is less interested in shock than in reflection.
The Neanderthal storyline remains the emotional core. Every return to that prehistoric world feels like returning to the film’s heartbeat. Yet the decision to weave all three timelines together speaks to Stanton and Colby Day’s larger vision. They are not simply telling separate stories. They are expressing faith in continuity, in echo, in the persistence of love across eras.
In the Blink of an Eye may not dismantle you the way its premise suggests it might, but it carries a sincerity that is difficult to dismiss. It reaches for something expansive without losing its warmth. In a landscape often defined by safe choices, this feels like a film willing to swing big.
It is a film about survival, memory, and connection. It is about how we endure. And even when it keeps its feet on the ground, its eyes remain fixed on the stars.
In the Blink of an Eye is now streaming on Hulu.
