I like movies.
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
In a film in which dumb and vicious men view women either as sexual property to be coveted or conniving whores to be killed, it's the final shot of Dottie ambiguously moving her finger behind the trigger guard which at last leaves the film on a brilliant note of female agency finally breaking through. We ultimately don't know if Dottie shoots Joe, because the decision not for our satisfaction, only hers.
I guess I watched this but I may never have taken less away from a film. This passed through me violently and yet entirely undigested like a license plate in the belly of a shark. It's among the least real-seeming pieces of art I've ever engaged with, like a 30 Rock skit that your subconscious stretched to feature length during an incoherent dream from eating a cheese plate too late. I'm still not even sure this exists as anything besides…
Of all the praise to lay at the feet of Apichatpong Weerasethakul, one of the most arresting and profound artists at work today, the best I can think to offer him, right now, is this:
In an age of absolutely untrammeled chaos, anxiety, and the sheer overwhelming buzz and roar of day-to-day urban living, his work—both thematically and explicitly—acts as a tonic, a restoration of our ability to center ourselves; serene, meditative, and open again to the possibilities of the present moment.