Writer: Thomas Kear
Director: Bogdan Radu
Based on a true story, well-to-do Grace is trying to rebuild her life after a violent attack in which her husband was killed. She goes to grief counselling, but she resists the advice of her therapist. She spends her days in the large, dark house she once shared with Carter, but its rooms are haunted by his presence, only accentuating his absence. Bogdan Radu’s film is as encompassing and as fragilely slender as grief itself.
Nicola Wright puts in a commanding performance as Grace who is struck almost immobile with sorrow. She tries to keep to a routine that her therapist suggests will give her a sense of order when the outside world is in chaos. She sets her alarm for 7 am each morning, makes her meals from scratch and mops the wooden floor of her shabby chic living room. But when the chaos intrudes – for instance, when the Ocado delivery is late – she relives the assault and is driven mad by the ponderous ticking of the grandfather clock.
These scenes, where nothing much happens, are the best in Radu’s film and we can really sense the parching effects of grief. When we do follow her outside – to the therapist’s office overlooking the Tate Modern or to the well-meaning next-door neighbours’ house – the real world is dreary and parochial. Grace’s grief is keen, albeit languid at times as she slumps in her armchair.
But as elegant as these observations of mourning are, 68 minutes seems a little long for such an insular story. Writer Thomas Kear attempts to flesh out the plot by charting Grace’s relationship with her insensitive son Adam (Charlie Clee) but these scenes aren’t as deft as those when she is alone in the house. Likewise, an epiphany at the neighbour’s doesn’t quite convince.
There are a few clichés too. When Grace cooks dinner, she places a plate full of food on the table where her husband used to sit. She accidentally smashes a photograph of the two of them together and petals drop off a forgotten vase of roses. We’ve seen these images many times before. Fortunately, however, other tropes of bereavement are rendered anew in Radu’s slow and steady approach.
Wright’s performance is also unhurried, and she even carries off some old-fashioned costume choices; does any woman wear a head-scarf nowadays tied under the chin like the Queen in the 1960s? Otherwise, Wright is immaculate as Grace who belongs to a bygone era where grief was something harboured alone.
Alba Rose is presented by Verve Bee Media.