Juste la fin du monde (It's Only the End of the World)

A decade's shocks in wandering, discoveries, independence, success engrained skin dove, a career, applause, resentment, forgotten pastures, frigid climes, an author travels home for the first time in more than 10 years to visit his sheltered family, bewilderment and/or jealousy estranging their contentment, mom, sis, bro, conjugal aggression, imaginary constructs resonating with crisp tangible immediacy, actual conversations, evidence based yearning, but when people have been thinking about what to say for years they often do in fact say something, and if you're ill-prepared for their hypotheticals, your silence may seem bitterly bemused, like a question of authenticity, in an hypercritical emotional pound.

Lost at play.

Bullies betwitching.

Reminiscent of Tennessee Williams or Edward Albee but not quite there yet, although Xavier Dolan's touch makes Jean-Luc Lagarce's play (screenplay by Dolan) unreel like a lighter work of a criterion bound European composer, Juste la fin du monde (It's Only the End of the World) distances itself from Mommy et Tom à la ferme insofar as the potential for searing venomous outbursts wantonly branding like vehement scorched earth policies are stoically withheld till the end, as Louis (Gaspard Ulliel/William Boyce Blanchette/Emile Rondeau) theoretically transitions Dolan's texts into less sensational artistic realms.

The characteristic panic brought on by domineering feelings of inadequacy is still present, but rather than consistently disorienting throughout, it's patiently reserved for a wildly stubborn yet subdued expansion.

Each character has a private moment with Louis, loving tender cold reflective curious caustic revelatory pleading confused moments clad in nebulous joyful desperation, moving from obliviousness to uncertainty to understanding to contempt, Louis remaining frustratingly hesitant à la carte, wherein lies the film's brilliant delicacy.

No resolutions, no answers, less comment, not that they weren't there for the asking, there's just no way to get a word in edgewise.

Unfamiliarity.

Nerves.

Like a dishevelling enactment of acquiesced deterministic repression, Juste la fin keeps so much locked inside as its open wound penitently interpolate.

Driven to distraction and daydream.

Otherwise a pleasant afternoon.