



Bergman's hotel-room chamber piece runs on heat and silence: two sisters trapped together in a city whose language nobody speaks, saying almost nothing while everything curdles underneath.
Ester is dying slowly upstairs with her translations and her cough. Anna's downstairs, sweating through her dress and eyeing up strangers in the bar. I found myself leaning forward during the quiet bits, half expecting someone to finally say the thing nobody's saying. The city outside doesn't help, close and humid, with tanks rumbling past like nobody's told them there's a plot to interrupt.
It doesn't explain itself and doesn't want to. Anna ends up with a man in the corridor mostly because it's something to do with her hands, not because she actually wants him there.
Austere, stubbornly uncomfortable, and still rattling round my head.