claire 👁️ diane’s review published on Letterboxd:
Ana's spectral screams as she flows and dances like a ghoul in the subway. All I could do was cry at it, with her, for her. Some freeing thing and all the bindings too coming up as blood and spit. Woman spirit birthed up from the grave womb of the earth.
There are doppelgangers and spies and the shadow of the Wall and monsters and eyes. The man with pink socks. And it is so profoundly sad. It's still falling slowly on me.
I never feel capable of doing films justice with just a few words. Especially, when I think how much of someone's life, how many lives were bound up in this thing. Sometimes for years. And it has merely passed me in two hours. Sometimes, though, I feel like the truest cinema sends me rushing to hold those I love. The film has overflowed itself and filled me with images and memories and people. Ana and Isabelle. Mark and Sam Neill. They stay, if the movie has power, in your mind. Sometimes for a long time. Or maybe forever. The film ends, but I am stilling orbiting them, her. In that moment, crying out and out and out. I take what closure I can from the falling bombs and the look in Helen's eyes. Most of all from their last kiss.
The film fills you up and soaks its memories into yours. Not now, for me, a great loving work in the details. Just a small token of remembering. All this. And somehow I feel so deeply for Ana. Her sinister awakening is just being human. When the monster consolidates into him. Some idealized memory of him. And her in Helen, for Mark. How can it not strike you to the soul to see their love still on fire. When they could create anything, they still looked for each other.
I want to cry out and out like Ana. It's the childish part of me that can't abide the truth of their loss. I can't let it go. Isn't that their problem? I'm sick for memories and the holding onto them, for remembering over and over. Sister faith and what remembering can do.