I had already decided I wouldn't like it. That's the embarrassing part. Someone picked it, I made a small show of going along, and I sat down with my arms metaphorically folded, ready to be unmoved by something other people had told me was meaningful.
It got me about forty minutes in, and not with a twist or a big scene. It was a quiet one, two people not saying the thing they both clearly wanted to say, and the film had the patience to just let that sit instead of rescuing them. I'm a sucker for restraint. Give me a story that trusts me to fill in the gap and I'll follow it anywhere.
What stayed with me wasn't the plot, which I could summarise in a sentence and wouldn't bother to. It was the texture: the long pauses, the way it refused to tell me how to feel and somehow made me feel more for it. I thought about it on the walk home and again the next morning over coffee, which is the only review that actually counts.
The wider lesson, if there is one, is that I am far too confident about what I'll enjoy before I've enjoyed it. I do the same with books, with places, with people occasionally. Worth being dragged out of that more often.