A widowed housewife, Jeanne Dielman leads an incredibly lonely existence. She cares for her teenage son, but their interactions betray an inability to truly connect. She has built a fastidious routine into her life – cooking, cleaning, turning lights on and off, and turning tricks – everything performed with OCD-like precision. The same is true outside the walls of her home, where she shops, banks, and frequents the same cafe – always alone. For reasons unknown to us, speech and emotion are a luxury that she can ill afford to give or receive, even when her son asks about sex and love. Similarly the camera shows us only what it stingily will via static, centered shots – what’s outside of the frame we’re left to discern for ourselves without the aid or distraction of panning, close-ups, dialogue or a film score. We’re allowed no escape because she has none. Unease lurks from the opening scene, when we find the tedium of her existence clinging to us like saran wrap. While I confess a bit of fast forwarding, if you can settle into the rhythm of Jeanne Dielman’s life, with its austere yet repetitive motions, you will start to wonder where it goes and how it will end. What becomes mildly entrancing is the notion that it must end, and when this existence shows signs of wear and tear, the viewer too begins to crack. The only way for Jeanne to withstand such a life is by forcibly shunning her feelings. When some slip of emotion (pleasure?) finally penetrates the barrier she has erected, she must defend herself from the assault on her senses and sense of control. Still when the denouement arrives, it remains most unexpected and provides a relief that is not quite welcome. This is a tough film that will not appeal to most but will sound an alarm in the minds of those to whom it does.