Seeing this on the big screen really does change things up, where the audience's collective observation heightens both the tension of Seyrig's repeated rhythms (and their gradual unraveling) as well as the film's surprising sense of humor (those bedtime mother-son conversations proved to be a laugh riot). Did not observe any walkouts, although there were quite a few bathroom breaks (including by me—I drank too much beforehand), which in their own way began to feel like responsive echoes of the ritualistic tasks being performed onscreen. Whatever your bladder mileage may be, Akerman's film otherwise remains an extremely accessible example of its type; it's so perfectly executed, beat by beat, that you might even be tempted to call it the greatest of all time.