Possibly one of the worst films I've ever seen, unless I'm missing something. Pretentious rubbish, trying to produce empathetic eerie scenes that don't quite work and are quite meaningless, other than to dwell on and evoke some evocative connection in the isolation and aloness most experience in bereavement. The film seems to be pretentious, trying to relate in some obscure way to Virginia Woolf, but all it achieved for me is enniu. Full of protracted meaningless scenes in its attempt to give the film gravity. Watching a chap with a sheet over his head standing in the middle of a room for several minutes does not convey any pathos and is quite superfluous to the objective of the story, if there really was one. There are many protracted meaningless scenes that at times I thought I had accidentally pressed my pause button, but no. However, this film would obviously appeal to some; as a toilet placed in the modern tate gallery was considered to be art several years ago. If anyone dare question the pretentiousness of that toilet, they might be accused of missing the point and perhaps being philistines. Whatever floats your boat I say. To me though, it's like the emperor's new clothes: What I saw was pretentious rubbish and certainly not worth 6.7 on IMDB.