What — and whom — do we have the power to hold onto, and how?
Diane‘s a meditation that quietly sneaks up on you — emotionally, philosophically, spiritually.
Kind of like how death gradually, loudly sneaks up on you.
Like how time slowly, quickly keeps sneaking away from you.
Unassuming surfaces belying internal mazes that give way to vast experience through oblique precision in miniature is the operating principle here, from the stolidly-meaningful, meaningfully-stolid cinematography to the melodious editing’s hypnotically-languid rhythm.
The titular Mary Kay Place’s performance also sneaks up on you; it’s the opposite of a showy, flashy turn. While her character always goes to the people in her life, Place’s approach is to let the audience come to her. We exist side by side, casually and comfortable — this describes our macro-relationship with the movie, too — unaware of the effect they’re having on us, how their essence is seeping under our skin, into our bones, how we’re starting to really get to know each other, how we’re forging an immensely-intimidate connection — we’re falling in love and being torn apart at the same time, AKA life. It’s organic alchemy through meticulous craft.
Diane‘s a cinema of transcendence companion piece to last year’s First Reformed.
In that stylistic vein, here’s its tale as told in three lines:
- “Just because you’re an idiot doesn’t mean you need to open your big fat mouth.”
- “You know, it’s like, sometimes, the air hurts.”
- “I can only stay for a minute.”