Back from a tour of duty, Kelli can’t wait to rejoin her old life in the Rust Belt town she’s always known. She’s ready to experience the feelings of everyday life—the carpet under her bare feet, the smell of her baby’s head.
Viewed from afar one might mistake Liza Johnson's ode to solemn serving women everywhere with verisimilitude, but not even watching paint dry or examining grass by the millimeter in some deconstructed Lynchian parable is this snoozable. Empty shop talk and leaky pipes lead to beers and not much else. Plot meanders while characters stumble in forlorn unanimity. Indie films shouldn't stink this much without cheese.