Shirley

With all her depression and drunkenness, Jackson is nobody's fool, and Moss never lets us forget the will of iron inside this often-incapacitated woman...

...a multi-hyphenate head trip, with rambles into murder mystery (...), female intimacy and obsession, the cult of personality, and the life/death sentence of traditional domestic roles in the early Sixties.

...lures you back into the frenzy, a play of wits and deception where the game isn’t victory or even solace, really, but a state of survival that feels dementedly, horrifically true.

Young and Moss beautifully level-out and make real the uneven relationship that spins out of Shirley and Rose being thrown together.

There’s a hypnotic perversity to the characters and how they interact, never meeting our expectations and Decker’s direction is equally peculiar and unpredictable.

The walls might not be able to talk, but they can sag and oppress and vibrate.