( words toward Lucile Hadzihalilovic’s Earwig ( & etc

Not so much what nightmares are made of, Lucile Hadzihalilovic's Earwig is more a maker's portal into the pain-shaped minds of those terrified of having more dreams. Lost and beautiful, it employs identity as a loneliness that pinpoints the vague. Earthy, paranoid, violent. I don't know. Take a breath. You're the someone else you want to be and sometimes I think of all the bodies I came back to you in.

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Beth de Araújo's Soft & Quiet is a doomscroll of hidden proximity that will tattoo insomnia on even the most thoughtfully awake. I'm not sure I can recommend it but know damn well it needs to be seen and looked away from in equal measure, and vice versa. Difficult and driven, it deserves all be present. Its one-take illusion puts its menace in so many real places that one feels followed, directly beside, winked at, and eye-level with peepholes marked for repair. As art and as document, it is too true to be based on anything, and is instead ripped into existence by an air breathed by characters who sleep beneath empty symbols and make nothing of vandalism save what's already been carved onto the surfaces of their untouched and wrongly examined lives. It's dark here, in the light, and we know these people.

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Thomas M. Wright's The Stranger is a bewitchingly downbeat true crime thriller both anchored and spirited away by the eidolic performances of Joel Edgerton and Sean Harris, each of which use a resigned urgency to centralize the haunted hinterland of retroactive pursuit. Edgerton eats worry in his sleep, and Harris sees friendship as starvation. Evil here grows older by being younger than time.