Definitely the worst film of the year so far, (Q refines this as the worst film of the last five years) another bizarre choice by Jessie Buckley, who's great, but cannot help this disaster of pretentious crap about a woman traumatised by the death of her mental-health challenged husband (Paapa Essiedu) who finds herself in a country retreat populated by different versions of Rory Kinnear - different 'men' types, in fact. (When we realised this, we both independently had an Inside No.9 reaction.) The ending defies description. Could not have been made by a woman.
Some of the early eerie stuff is good; the highlight is her singing into an echoey tunnel; Rob Hardy provides some beautiful (though digitally colour corrected) imagery.
For a more successful variant, one could look at Robert Altman's psychological horror film Images.
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