Chris Pine and Jenny Slate Reignite Sparks: Secrets from Sundance’s Most Intimate Film

Olivia Bennett, 1/23/2026 Rachel Lambert’s “Carousel” is a celluloid waltz of nostalgia and vulnerability—Chris Pine and Jenny Slate dare to love, slowly, in a world spinning too fast. Forget empty spectacle; this Sundance gem rewards those who linger for grown-up heartbreak and the luminous ache of what might have been.

Lambert evokes nostalgia not as a garnish but as an act of devotion. You don’t just watch "Carousel"—you feel the gentle grain of celluloid cinema under your fingernails, the sort of tactile pleasure only cinephiles still rave about in 2025 as digital razzmatazz churns on elsewhere. These days, the multiplex roars louder than a pride parade after-party, but there’s a kind of rebellious hush here. Lambert’s pacing lingers—deliberately so, almost daring today’s frenzied streaming generation to keep up. Robert Redford, that patron saint of earnest indies, might be quietly grinning somewhere.

Chris Pine, stepping into both leading man and co-producer roles, wears the heartbreak of Noah, a local doctor whose gentle bedside manner barely masks the bruises of life: a marriage in ruins, a medical practice teetering, and a teenage daughter (Abby Ryder Fortson, channeling every nervous twitch of adolescence) sending distress signals he almost misses. Jenny Slate enters as Rebecca, the returning high school flame, suitcase heavy with disappointments both political and personal. There’s no orchestral swell when they meet—just the brittle awkwardness of two people who never quite stopped knowing one another.

Lambert metes out the past with exquisite stinginess. No cheat-sheet flashbacks or expository speeches here; the story unspools at the tempo of memory—slow, elliptical, unconcerned with handholding. The sensation is intoxicating—sort of like catching the scent of something half-remembered at a thrift store, leaving your heart oddly winded.

Of course, indie films are infamous for betting the house on chemistry. “Time and money are always tight,” Lambert wryly commented, and she wasn’t overselling. Yet in scenes between Pine and Slate, there’s a subtle current, a sideways wit that feels both learned and lived in. Pine practically beams recalling, “Jenny is so smart, and I’m sort of a lover of smart people...she had me.” Their connection bristles not just with longing but intelligence—crisp, awkward, deeply human. And in a quiet wink to genre convention, their “second first kiss” serves up a slow-motion pirouette that even Cary Grant would tip his hat to, wherever he’s haunting these days.

All this and yet, the look of "Carousel" is strikingly unvarnished. Props are borrowed, unfussy—a dish of frozen fruit from the director’s own mother shows up in a kitchen scene, giving everything that unmistakably indie tinge of realness. The craving for connection, pent up during the lockdowns of 2020, colors every frame. Lambert admitted, "Have you ever wanted something so much in life you do all you could not to get it?" It’s a riddle that pulses at the story’s bruised core, giving it the weight of truth rather than trope.

There’s an argument, late in the second act—one of those raw, silk-stained battles that seems to hang in the space between words, pain mingled with hope. Pine and Slate drop every mask for just a second—so believable that calling it "career-best" from Pine doesn’t feel like hyperbole. It’s easy to forget, amid his more high-octane roles, that he was built for this kind of aching romance; think less Prince Charming, more post-war Stewart or Grant, glimmering and undone in the same breath.

"Carousel" refuses the crash-and-burn spectacle favored by so many contemporary romances. Instead, it simmers. Pine himself calls it “an earnest, heartfelt, non-jaded, non-cool investigation of...what we humans do on the planet, which is, you know, how do we love?” No aliens, no sleights of hand—just eye contact, history, and the terrible, beautiful audacity of trying to connect.

And yet, at its core, "Carousel" is insistently, even stubbornly, American—not from flag-waving but from its details: faded shopfronts, hand-me-down traditions, rituals both cherished and nearly lost. It feels uniquely timely. Lambert herself spoke with that generation-defining wistfulness, observing, “This film is American and, quietly, has a lot to say about America right now, and where we’re going.” That sense of asking what it means to come home—if home is ever really the same again—resonates strangely in 2025, as small towns continue their slow waltz between past and future.

Sundance remains the perfect launchpad: snowy, resolutely independent, forever a little bit contrarian. As the credits roll and cellphones flicker to life, one can’t help but wonder if “Carousel” is exactly the sort of blue-flame slow-burn that dares viewers to sit with their discomfort—and their yearning—a bit longer. In a marketplace obsessed with the next shiny thing, Lambert and her luminous cast remind us that it sometimes pays to linger, letting love and memory unfurl at their own stubborn pace. And perhaps, to borrow a phrase, there’s still reward for those who dare to spin with the music box—waiting for the next bittersweet note.

Tucked amid the restless winds of rural Ohio—where family secrets seem to ride the breeze along with pollen and stories—Rachel Lambert’s "Carousel" drifts onto this year’s Sundance stage like a relic found in an attic: delicate, precious, and defiantly out of step with our quick-take era. Let’s be honest—audiences are trained to expect swelling music, grand gestures, maybe an airport sprint or two. This, however, is none of that. It’s as if someone pressed pause on the world’s noise, dusted off an old reel of celluloid, and dared us to pay attention.Lambert evokes nostalgia not as a garnish but as an act of devotion. You don’t just watch "Carousel"—you feel the gentle grain of celluloid cinema under your fingernails, the sort of tactile pleasure only cinephiles still rave about in 2025 as digital razzmatazz churns on elsewhere. These days, the multiplex roars louder than a pride parade after-party, but there’s a kind of rebellious hush here. Lambert’s pacing lingers—deliberately so, almost daring today’s frenzied streaming generation to keep up. Robert Redford, that patron saint of earnest indies, might be quietly grinning somewhere.Chris Pine, stepping into both leading man and co-producer roles, wears the heartbreak of Noah, a local doctor whose gentle bedside manner barely masks the bruises of life: a marriage in ruins, a medical practice teetering, and a teenage daughter (Abby Ryder Fortson, channeling every nervous twitch of adolescence) sending distress signals he almost misses. Jenny Slate enters as Rebecca, the returning high school flame, suitcase heavy with disappointments both political and personal. There’s no orchestral swell when they meet—just the brittle awkwardness of two people who never quite stopped knowing one another.Lambert metes out the past with exquisite stinginess. No cheat-sheet flashbacks or expository speeches here; the story unspools at the tempo of memory—slow, elliptical, unconcerned with handholding. The sensation is intoxicating—sort of like catching the scent of something half-remembered at a thrift store, leaving your heart oddly winded.Of course, indie films are infamous for betting the house on chemistry. “Time and money are always tight,” Lambert wryly commented, and she wasn’t overselling. Yet in scenes between Pine and Slate, there’s a subtle current, a sideways wit that feels both learned and lived in. Pine practically beams recalling, “Jenny is so smart, and I’m sort of a lover of smart people...she had me.” Their connection bristles not just with longing but intelligence—crisp, awkward, deeply human. And in a quiet wink to genre convention, their “second first kiss” serves up a slow-motion pirouette that even Cary Grant would tip his hat to, wherever he’s haunting these days.All this and yet, the look of "Carousel" is strikingly unvarnished. Props are borrowed, unfussy—a dish of frozen fruit from the director’s own mother shows up in a kitchen scene, giving everything that unmistakably indie tinge of realness. The craving for connection, pent up during the lockdowns of 2020, colors every frame. Lambert admitted, "Have you ever wanted something so much in life you do all you could not to get it?" It’s a riddle that pulses at the story’s bruised core, giving it the weight of truth rather than trope.There’s an argument, late in the second act—one of those raw, silk-stained battles that seems to hang in the space between words, pain mingled with hope. Pine and Slate drop every mask for just a second—so believable that calling it "career-best" from Pine doesn’t feel like hyperbole. It’s easy to forget, amid his more high-octane roles, that he was built for this kind of aching romance; think less Prince Charming, more post-war Stewart or Grant, glimmering and undone in the same breath."Carousel" refuses the crash-and-burn spectacle favored by so many contemporary romances. Instead, it simmers. Pine himself calls it “an earnest, heartfelt, non-jaded, non-cool investigation of...what we humans do on the planet, which is, you know, how do we love?” No aliens, no sleights of hand—just eye contact, history, and the terrible, beautiful audacity of trying to connect.And yet, at its core, "Carousel" is insistently, even stubbornly, American—not from flag-waving but from its details: faded shopfronts, hand-me-down traditions, rituals both cherished and nearly lost. It feels uniquely timely. Lambert herself spoke with that generation-defining wistfulness, observing, “This film is American and, quietly, has a lot to say about America right now, and where we’re going.” That sense of asking what it means to come home—if home is ever really the same again—resonates strangely in 2025, as small towns continue their slow waltz between past and future.Sundance remains the perfect launchpad: snowy, resolutely independent, forever a little bit contrarian. As the credits roll and cellphones flicker to life, one can’t help but wonder if “Carousel” is exactly the sort of blue-flame slow-burn that dares viewers to sit with their discomfort—and their yearning—a bit longer. In a marketplace obsessed with the next shiny thing, Lambert and her luminous cast remind us that it sometimes pays to linger, letting love and memory unfurl at their own stubborn pace. And perhaps, to borrow a phrase, there’s still reward for those who dare to spin with the music box—waiting for the next bittersweet note.