The World to Come

The ink is constantly freezing in Abigail’s well, and that feels like the perfect metaphor for the world she inhabits. Life in 1850s upstate New York isn't a sweeping John Ford vista; it’s a grueling, mud-caked marathon of churning butter, burying children, and surviving the crushing silence of a husband who means well but has the emotional range of a fence post. I watched this for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon while my radiator was making a sound like a dying bagpipe, and honestly, the drafty chill in my apartment only made the film’s atmospheric isolation feel more oppressive.

Katherine Waterston stars as Abigail, a woman whose internal life is so vast and articulate that you can almost see the sentences forming behind her weary eyes. She records the mundanity of her existence in a ledger with a precision that feels like a desperate attempt to prove she still exists. Then, a new couple moves into the neighboring farm, and Abigail meets Tallie, played by a luminous, red-headed Vanessa Kirby. While Abigail is all internal restraint, Tallie is a spark in a dry hayloft. Their connection isn't just a romance; it’s a necessary oxygen mask in a world designed to let women suffocate.

The Language of Longing

What struck me most about The World to Come is how it treats dialogue. Based on the story by Jim Shepard (who co-wrote the script with Ron Hansen, the guy who wrote The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford), the movie is incredibly "literary." The characters speak with a formal, poetic weight that might feel stiff in a lesser film, but here, it emphasizes how much they value every word. When Katherine Waterston narrates her diary entries, it doesn't feel like a lazy shortcut; it feels like we’re being invited into the only place she is truly free.

The chemistry between Vanessa Kirby and Waterston is the kind of slow-burn intensity that makes a simple scene of them sharing a cup of coffee feel like a heist. Kirby (who was also incredible in Pieces of a Woman) brings a defiant energy to Tallie—she’s the kind of person who refuses to let the frontier break her, even when her husband, Finney, played by a simmering and genuinely terrifying Christopher Abbott, tries to extinguish her spirit.

A Tale of Two Husbands

Usually, in these period dramas, the husbands are either cardboard villains or ignored entirely. But this film does something much more interesting. Casey Affleck, who also produced the film, plays Abigail’s husband, Dyer. He isn't a bad man; he’s just a man who has been hollowed out by grief and the relentless labor of the farm. He loves Abigail in the only way he knows how—by providing—but he has no idea how to speak to her soul. Dyer is basically a human cardigan—functional, a bit scratchy, and ultimately unable to stop a real storm.

On the flip side, Christopher Abbott plays Finney as a man who views his wife as property that is malfunctioning. His performance is a chilling reminder of the era’s "Representation Progress," or lack thereof, showing the domestic horror that queer women faced when their "disobedience" was treated as a moral failing or a psychiatric break. The contrast between the two households—one quiet and grieving, the other loud and volatile—creates a tension that kept me leaning toward the screen, even during the slower passages.

Why It Vanished (The Pandemic Void)

Released in early 2021, The World to Come was a casualty of the "limbo" era of cinema. Festivals were digital, theaters were half-empty, and everyone was looking for "comfort watches" to escape the reality of being stuck indoors. A movie about two women suffering in isolation on a frozen farm was a tough sell for a public that was currently suffering in isolation in their own living rooms. I accidentally sat on my remote and turned the subtitles to Dutch for five minutes, and honestly, the visual language was so strong I almost didn't notice.

It’s a shame it didn't get a bigger theatrical push because the cinematography by André Chemetoff is stunning. He shot it on 16mm film, which gives the whole thing a grainy, tactile texture. You can practically feel the grit under the fingernails and the dampness of the wool coats. Interestingly, despite being set in New York, the production actually filmed in Romania to find the right kind of untouched, rugged wilderness. It works—it looks like a landscape that hasn't quite decided if it wants to let humans live there yet.

The score by Daniel Blumberg (who also has a small role as a Tinker) is another highlight. It uses unconventional woodwinds that sound like the wind whistling through a cracked windowpane. It’s haunting, weird, and perfectly fits a movie that is more interested in the "internal Western" than the "shoot-em-up" kind.

The World to Come is a gorgeous, heartbreaking piece of cinema that deserves more than being buried in a streaming library. It’s a film for people who appreciate the weight of a look and the radical act of finding someone who truly hears you. While the ending might leave you feeling like you’ve been left out in the cold, the heat of the performances stays with you long after the credits crawl. If you missed this one during the 2021 shuffle, do yourself a favor and find it—just maybe wear a sweater while you watch.