Borrowed Time

For over a century, the East Brother Light Station has stood defiantly in the middle of the San Francisco Bay, more a harbor to the gulls and cormorants who nest on its jagged cliffs than those rare individuals who have called the island home over the years. Once solely a beacon for passing ships, East Brother has, for several decades now, functioned as a temporary reprieve from city life for weekend tourists, who can embrace nostalgia at the now converted bed and breakfast. This all changed, however, during the COVID-19 pandemic, as the inn at East Brother shuttered entirely, leaving only its keeper, a woman named Desiree, alone on the island. Unadorned, observational cinematography immerses the viewer into the rhythm of Desiree’s life on the island. The simple bliss of routine and self-sufficiency is punctuated by Desiree’s growing relationship with the island’s natural beauty. But a plaintive undercurrent moves throughout the film, announcing to the viewer what Desiree, —such an existence, at least in these times, is destined to end. In its intimate depiction of a one-of-a-kind experience, Borrowed Time invites larger questions about what is lost in a rapidly changing world.