Novelistic and abstruse, the film—named for Woolf's nostalgic middle-aged socialite, Clarissa Dalloway—unfolds with the very same stream-of-consciousness telling as the original text.
In mining her most intimate anxieties, as a mother and a creator, she arrives with one of the year's most striking debuts, which builds quietly but assertively to an archly edited climax of poignant reflection.
Across several disparate bodies of work, the artist returns to the same question: what is lost, and what remains, when an image stands in for an experience.