DRAMA; 1hr 53min
STARRING: Rose Byrne, Conan O’Brien, Danielle Macdonald, Christian Slater, A$AP Rocky
Head space: O’Brien and Byrne
If anyone needs post-haste therapy, it has to be an overwhelmed Linda (Byrne). Linda is, in fact, a practising therapist and does, in fact, have a therapist of her own (O’Brien), although his apparently terminal disdain of her renders him next to useless. She also has a young and desperately unwell daughter (Delaney Quinn), who refuses to eat and requires IV feeding every night. As if this isn’t anxiety-inducing enough — which of course it is — their Montauk, Long Island, apartment is flooded via a gaping hole in the ceiling, which could also be a hallucinatory portal to other worlds, Linda being partial to the narcotising of weed and wine. The mini-disaster forces her and her daughter’s relocation to a fleabag motel, where A$AP Rocky is a shot of cool as its superintendent and their next-room neighbour, James.
Linda’s censorious husband, Charlie (Slater), is on an eight-week work trip, presenting as a tinny voice on her phone, while her daughter’s face likewise remains unseen. Her resulting aloneness is the nerve centre of writer-director-actress Mary Bronstein’s distress flare from an edge that just keeps getting steeper. Linda’s patients are a relentless grind. One severely troubled woman (Macdonald) even flees a session, leaving her squalling baby behind. According to her snooty doctor (Bronstein), Linda’s daughter isn’t improving. Charlie is a downer and a nag. And the apartment ceiling’s hole-slash-portal is staying right where it is since nobody seems inclined to fix it.
Bronstein and Byrne leave no jagged stone unturned in this alienation landslide, into which Linda sinks degree by crushing degree. Two hours of her assaultive life is a big ask of her and of us. Yet nor is it possible to turn away from the impetus of an unflagging Byrne. Her panicked rage is a pressure valve, tearing through every eviscerating scene.
