At first, it feels like watching paint dry—meticulously, dutifully, day after day. And then the cracks start to show. A pot overboils. A routine slips. A rhythm breaks. What Chantal Akerman does here is radical not in scale but in restraint: three hours of repetition that turn domestic routine into quiet revolt.
Delphine Seyrig is mesmerising. Her every gesture—peeling potatoes, folding towels, buttoning coats—becomes loaded with something unspoken. It’s a performance built from precision and silence, all the more devastating because nothing is ever said outright.
It’s about the tyranny of tasks, the claustrophobia of gender roles, and the violence simmering just beneath the surface of order. Not a film to multitask through. It demands patience, attention, and trust. And it rewards all three. The final act isn’t a twist—it’s a slow scream. Routine isn’t just habit here; it’s a form of survival. Until, suddenly, it isn’t. Astonishing, in the quietest possible way.