The Quiet Girl is, appropriately, a quiet film. It lulls the viewer into its hazy, warm rhythm. Eibhlín brushing Cáit's hair in front of the bedroom window, the sun streaming in, yellow like the dress Eibhlín and Seán buy her. Eibhlín counts to one hundred, and you can almost feel the soothing shiver of a comb's teeth, a relaxing scalp massage. The slow, unfurling of hunched shoulders and progressive relaxing of the body, feeling safe enough to sleep soundly and deeply. The introduction of sincere apology, an honesty meant to include rather than an excuse to express anger and frustration, to blame.

There's a steadiness to Cáit's new routine, a comfort and care that's foreign to her. A freedom as she runs to get the mail, returning to fun and joy. The transforming tenderness of love and family.