there's a beautifully composed, breathtakingly filmed shot of dog shit in this movie, and that honestly feels about right.

I was on-board for 2/3rds of this (it honestly felt like Fellini resurrected minus the parts of Fellini I hate), but that last third... yikes. the images are never less than immaculate, and Yalitza Aparicio is remarkable in all ways, but to avoid getting into spoiler territory, while I am about as far removed from the subject matter and culture in my lived experience as one can be, I know emotion when I feel it, and the emotion of this gradually became less plausible and sensible as it played out, arriving at a place of dissonance that felt in the moment like accidental Haneke-ian cruelty at the end of a film so supposedly humanistic.

I'll read just about every take on this (particularly women critics and critics of color, and those who review the film through the lens of motherhood), but its immediate aftertaste is extremely bitter.