With all her depression and drunkenness, Jackson is nobody's fool, and Moss never lets us forget the will of iron inside this often-incapacitated woman...

...lures you back into the frenzy, a play of wits and deception where the game isn’t victory or even solace, really, but a state of survival that feels dementedly, horrifically true.

...a multi-hyphenate head trip, with rambles into murder mystery (...), female intimacy and obsession, the cult of personality, and the life/death sentence of traditional domestic roles in the early Sixties.

The walls might not be able to talk, but they can sag and oppress and vibrate.

There’s a hypnotic perversity to the characters and how they interact, never meeting our expectations and Decker’s direction is equally peculiar and unpredictable.

Young and Moss beautifully level-out and make real the uneven relationship that spins out of Shirley and Rose being thrown together.

...it’s directed to create a humidly intense atmosphere of emotional abuse...

Elisabeth Moss håller en klistrad vid intrigerna.