Adam Cook’s review published on Letterboxd:
A film about togetherness and apartness as a duality of being. Home / no home, stasis/movement. The subway that barrels forward yet is frozen, doors opening to dreary, desolate stops. People confronted by the camera are confronted by their aloneness, their own anonymity.
We hear Chantal read her mother's letters juxtaposed with the melancholia of 70s New York, at times drowned out by street noise — but the film becomes neither of these elements, it is not what we see nor hear but rather the product of that juxtaposition, an entirely different space and set of ideas, becoming something like what I would imagine cinema was meant to be.
"This is a Private Station" reads one sign. "For your convenience We are always open" reads another.
The final shot: moving away from Manhattan as it's swallowed in fog, or moving closer to "elsewhere" ("nowhere"?). As true and articulate a film about human existence as I've seen and therefore tragic.