Elena

As a barren particular is brought into the forefront, behind which rests a model representative of flight, stationary and passive, pensive and solitary, the image's distinction begins to slowly fade, before, after a fellow aviator arrives, it is subtly and universally interiorized.

What follows is an expertly executed yet modestly matriculated morphology, wherein each member of a seemingly content couple exercises their predetermined propensities to finance a younger generation.

Hypocrisy and deception abound.

Historical preference bifurcates.

Galvanized wit is rewarded.

And opportunity will not be displaced.

Andrey Zvyagintsev adopts sparse means to inculcate a breathtaking exemplar, which suggests that the film's form undeniably upholds Elena (Nadezhda Markina), although an internal cross-examination, mischievously interjected by its music, which preliminarily tricked me into believing Elena is simply a collusively cheeky quotidian parody of your traditional blockbuster, sustainably supports the case's other systemic suitor (original music by Philip Glass).

The imaginary factor is brilliantly lubricated by Elena Lyadova's (Katerina) provocative pirouette, volatile yet absorptive, as she self-indulgently tears up the runaway. 

Melancholic film.