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A withering diagnosis of urban loneliness and ruthless capitalist self-interest masquerading as a sleek fantasia of Bubble-era domestic life, and that’s even before the neurotic housewife turns an unhinged door-to-door salesman into a psychotic slasher. A film that understands that the home-invasion-thriller is the yuppie nightmare par excellence, how quickly and totally the lie that this is all my hard-earned stuff can unravel. The way, from the start, Yasuko gazes at her apartment door as the source of some malevolent dread, other men’s voices always appearing to her as if through an intercom’s crackle or a telephone wire’s distance; so much outside portentously waiting to threaten her tastefully designed inside. Bubbles, of course, have a way of bursting (“Before seeing the sky, only to pop and die”), as do the cheap particle-board doors of our shiny new high-rises. “I’m from the house of god. Could you spare a few minutes to talk?”
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