It’s so damn loud in all its quietness. Layered. Melancholic. The kind of film that sits with you, not because it tries to, but because it already knows where you hurt.

It says something brutal and beautiful, that when you dedicate your life to art, every heartbreak, every loss, every silence becomes material. That memory starts bending to fit the frame. And how, sometimes, pretending to reconcile on camera feels more real than doing it outside of it.

Renate Reinsve is gravity itself; everything and everyone is drawn to her. Stellan Skarsgård is infuriating and magnetic, often in the same breath. You’ll hate him, but you’ll watch him anyway.

You don’t leave this film crying. You leave aching. Because it’s profoundly human. And it’s so clearly personal to Trier, you can feel him bleeding between the cuts.