In fact almost all of the seventy-five minutes of running time that feel like about three hours, things start at barely controllable and progressively disintegrate for the rest of the time. Anne has an undisclosed mental illness which drives her into combative episodes, leaves her confused most of the time and takes her further and further away from the euphoria of the gloriously controlled fall in the opening sequence.
While there is no condescension or judgement levelled at Anne at any time by the film itself we are kept both aloof and taken to physical intimacy. Almost the entirety of this film is shot in close-up, giving it a breathless, inescapable feel. It's hard to empathise with Anne as all of the conflicts we see are the result of her hitting out against her own lack of control. In one sequence a teacher confronted with a particularly hostile response repeatedly asks Anne if she needs assistance and the most forbidding of exchanges is: "I don't know how to help you."
Deragh Campbell in the title role brings a solid commitment to the task and we are not given a moment's break from Anne's state, from her lashing out, a helplessly drunken episode or the teetering wedding speech she gives for her colleague. All of the performances around her follow in the verite documentary style and none fail to convince.
However, without a space for the audience to assess if there is any hope to be had for this woman, there is little for us to do but witness the torment of her life. The potential for her engagement at the beginning is never fulfilled here and the sole hint that she might find some is packed into the final sequence which involves a moment's hesitation before a certain decision. Even there, as it is hard to judge where this happens on the timeline, we are still none the wiser. Perhaps that's the point, distressing as that is: we stand and walk to the exit as the late '60s sounding song groans over the end credits of this late '60s feeling film and leave her there mid-air.
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