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The world is in ruins, an ex-cleaner stumbles upon a tacky, exploitative 'get help' book and finds escapism in an analogy in it about a play write called Caden. She thinks back on her life, how she settled, how she left her creative ambitions behind, how she aspired to be something more and attatches Caden's persona onto herself. She clings onto this false reality of paranoia, depression, loneliness as hey - it's still better than this…
Why do all films about lesbians have to be about two women settling for each other because one of their husbands is a dick. It's a lifestyle, an incredibly burdening one in this time period that all these films insist on being set in, not just some last resort women turn to when they've got nothing better. Shirley did this exact same fucking thing; people with atypical sexualities aren't coerced into fancying the same sex because they think men are…