Luke McCarthy’s review published on Letterboxd:
"Yesterday, this would've meant so much to us. Now it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all."
Bogart's wry charm is transformed into something much more toxic here, a supposed carelessness born from such deep-rooted insecurity that his character's toxic, repressed rage almost becomes a character in and of itself. This performance is somehow matched by Grahame's, who's expert navigation of the film's central arc turns what in anyone else's hands might be turgid melodrama into operatic tragedy.
Ray continually singles in on the melancholy, the sadness and the raw sense of longing which seems to permeate every fleeting glimpse of human connection we see on screen. When these small moments of hope eventually sour, it feels like the cinematic equivalent of drowning - a slow, inevitable submersion into an already fated tragedy. In the film's stunning climax, emotions, pathos and people collide in violent and ugly ways - insecurity is what makes these broken characters seek love, but ultimately, it's also the very thing that seems to corrupt it. A sad, sad film.