Bill Camp’s is absolutely the voice of a man who could get away with fucking my mom.

I’m indecisive on this. I think in some ways it’s disarmingly sensitive and beautiful, and surpasses its inherent triteness with an unusually gracious sense of patience and detail. I think the sound design is wonderful—angry voices boom and roar with disconcerting power in these suburban indoors, and whispers, or small, tight nougats of private conversation, still feel extraordinarily present. I think Diego Garcia shot the fuck out of this movie; even as the look so often felt referential—the history of American art has you covered—the clarity of it nevertheless feels hot-but-cold, poised but lonely. The shallow focus frequenty really adds something—it distorts the perfection of it all just so, lets you know what we’re seeing is only just this side of grotesque. 

But I also think Ed Oxenbould’s remarkably deployed face, with its shocking openness, is a cover for what may not be a real boy but is rather just a line partner, a sounding board, for everyone around him. What maybe makes him surpass that are the hints of deviance— sipping on the drink in mom’s room after she’s been caught, for example. 

Carey Mulligan has never impressed me more; she’s got a flare for rigidly realized, softly exaggerated melodrama I didn’t totally recognize before. But the character doesn’t totally square with me. One measly fight and you’re already a wilin’ out? I sense that the film is saying she was really just looking for any excuse to leave, as she was always unhappy. Even by that standard, things descend just a little too quickly.