Me and You and Everyone We Know Look Both Ways

Miranda July has charming curly hair and a certain way with a prim eighties top that makes her jeans seem not nearly so matronly. She's luminous and serene with a languid voice, even when she's writing FUCK on the windscreen of her own car. If you could write and direct and star in your own film then of course that's how you'd make yourself be. Maccaroni. There's also a goldfish in a plastic bag on the top of a moving car. But not for long.

Then there's a train track somewhere in Adelaide and many people who live together but don't speak to each other nearly enough, or don't say the right things. Mostly it's the questions they don't ask that are the problem. They're sad and wistful and anxious and regretful, but one of them does beautiful paintings of the sea and wears mostly sea-like colours, except for an orange singlet. When the painter falls over her knees are red with blood and it completes her outfit.

The pre-occupied anxiety is so right for now.