Gillian Anderson and Jason Isaacs Embark on an Epic Journey in The Salt Path
How do you pick up the pieces of your life after everything falls apart? That’s the question pulsing through The Salt Path, a quietly stirring film that throws Gillian Anderson and Jason Isaacs into some of their most vulnerable roles yet. Based on Raynor Winn’s bestselling memoir, the movie isn’t just another gritty survival tale—it’s a meditation on loss, endurance, and what we really mean by “home.”
The film opens on disaster: Raynor and Moth Winn, a couple well into middle age, watch as a bad business deal wipes out their farm and their savings. There’s no Hollywood villain here, just the plain, bureaucratic cruelty of debt and loss. And then, as if fate hadn’t done enough damage, news lands like a gut punch: Moth is diagnosed with a rare neurological disorder that will slowly rob him of movement and speech. Faced with homelessness and despair, their answer is radical—walk the entire 600-mile South West Coast Path from Somerset to Dorset, carrying only battered rucksacks and each other’s company.
Director Marianne Elliott keeps the camera close on Anderson and Isaacs, and for good reason. Anderson, often unrecognizable behind Raynor’s quiet strength and flashes of anxious tenderness, seems to wear the landscape as much as she walks it. Isaacs, playing Moth, brings a restraint to his character’s struggles, managing to show frustration and hope in the same fleeting glance. Their chemistry isn’t loud or romantic in the traditional sense; it’s about partnership—how to comfort, how to push, and how to survive together when everything feels like too much.
The Power of Landscape and the Limitations of the Long Walk
The wild, rugged coastline isn’t just a backdrop—it’s a character in itself, thanks to cinematographer Hélène Louvart. Every cliff face and misty morning feels both indifferent and protective, sheltering the couple while reminding us of how exposed they are. Louvart doesn’t prettify nature: some mornings are bleak, rain pounding down on threadbare tents, but there’s always a moment—a shaft of sunlight on the waves, a jagged edge of rock at dusk—that keeps hope alive.
What gives the film its steady heart is the way it handles struggle. Scenes jump between their grueling progress along the path and brief glimpses into their past: the empty farmhouse, the courtroom where their case unravels, nighttime arguments lit by anxiety and exhaustion. Yet, the movie doesn’t get bogged down in the details of their financial or medical woes. Instead, it trusts viewers to feel the emotional aftershocks, letting the weight of their losses color everything they say and do.
There’s humor in the bleakness, too. Along the way, Raynor and Moth run into a curious mix of strangers: a rambunctious walker who mistakes Moth for poet Simon Armitage, well-fed tourists who offer polite sympathy, locals unsure what to make of two outsiders sleeping rough in their hedgerows. These encounters break up the monotony but never steal the show; if anything, some of these side stories feel too fleeting, teasing drama and warmth that vanishes as quickly as it arrives.
Though the filmmakers try to keep the trip eventful, there’s only so much variety to be found in endless rain-slicked miles. Some viewers might feel the story sags—how many scenes can you watch of people trudging through mud before it starts to blend together? But then another unexpected moment of connection pops up, or the couple finds a dry patch to sleep for the night, and you remember why the journey matters at all.
Critics have pointed out the movie’s structural flaws—unfinished plot threads and segments that repeat the same emotional beat—but few can argue with its heart. The Salt Path manages to capture that impossible line between hopelessness and quiet triumph. It’s not flashy, but it’s honest. By the time Raynor and Moth reach the final cliffs of Dorset, you might not have all the answers. But you’re reminded that sometimes the walk itself is a reason to keep going—one step at a time.
