All this formal rigor in service of what exactly? This 140-minute shrug doesn't remotely support its ambitions of describing self-actualization and peace in the face of grief and trauma and toxic relationships, much less its excessive length, and the ritual at its heart is so self-consciously ambiguous that it could just as easily been an innocuous tradition and still have the same emotional and figurative resonance aside from an overarticulated thread about the men in her life being competitive and/or gaslighting dipshits. At least it's almost constantly intentionally hilarious, and Florence Pugh is terrific.