The thing about a breaking point is that it is often not an isolated incident, but time stretched out to its very limit, gnawed at by unbudging hands who pull and pull and pull. This sustained state of unrest, foreign at first, soon becomes home, the mind finding in the alchemy of human chemistry a precious key to willful Stockholm Syndrome. Lynne Ramsay roots “Die, My Love” in this precise spell, following a young couple consumed by the fog of early parenthood. 
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In the eight years since “You Were Never Really Here,” the Scottish filmmaker has been linked to dozens of projects, from a shelved take on “Moby Dick” to a still possible spin on “Polaris.” She finally returns with an adaptation of the eponymous book by Argentinian writer Ariana Harwicz, a psychological thriller nestled inside the mind of a nameless new mother. The novel is a thorny, gnarly tempest that riotously and angrily refuses to provide the reader with any semblance of accommodation. Some details are sparse, others largely intricate, but the undercurrent is clear: this is a whirlwind of great intensity, guided by a desire governed only by violence. 
To adapt such a book is a task that feels as impenetrable as the writing itself, but Ramsay and her signature curiosity for the tightest knots in the fabric of human morality is an inspired match. Unlike the book, in the film, the mother has a name. She is Grace (Jennifer Lawrence), a budding writer who has just moved in with Jackson (Robert Pattinson) into a fixer-upper that has long been in his family. The creaking wooden house, surrounded by expansive fields in one side and a dense forest in the other, forest, was once home to Jackson’s uncle, whose ghost still seems to rover the wide rooms. Soon enough, the house is made into a nest, with the couple welcoming a baby boy. 

The postpartum bubble is at first shrouded in elation, the young family spending long afternoons by the front porch, sipping beers and licking heavy frosting from dirty fingers. These days are quiet, punctuated only by the joyful — loose giggles and the cracking of extended, purposeful kisses. They are also short-lived, a sense of malaise rapidly seeping through the placidity of the countryside. The first sign of this shift comes as Grace greets with cruel words said with kindness, a banal trip to the store becomes ominous. 
Slowly, then entirely, the restraint of domesticity is torn apart by the primal. The writer grinds and grunts in need, craving the physical intimacy that was once so sparingly given and now excruciatingly scarce; she pushes against her hand in frenzied heat and then crouches inside a fridge in desperate need of cooling. The nature that surrounds her promptly echoes this furore, birds screeching, dogs barking, flies buzzing, a cacophony of unrestraint that drenches in agonizing noise a void that grows larger as her world shrinks and shrinks and shrinks. 
Lawrence is the undeniable propulsive force of “Die, My Love,” a performer whose rare ability to swing from the effortless charm of the classic movie star straight into the dark abyss that houses the odd and the grotesque lends itself perfectly to a role as tangled as Grace. She growls and barks and moans, limbs splattered against dirty floors and cutting through chlorinated water with a thirst for the kind of movement that exists outside the tight confinements of agreed politeness. While she excels at capturing such hysteria, it is the moments of haunting stillness that truly crown her stunning lead turn. The actor holds her gaze steady, her eyes holding truths words cannot grasp. 
Jennifer Lawrence in Lynne Ramsay’s ‘Die My Love.’
This hold the Oscar-winning actor has on the elation that comes from a jolting huff of nihilism is mesmerizing to watch, and echoed by a great accompanying turn by Pattinson. The British performer is just as comfortable in the uncomfortable as his co-star, the two a deliciously matched bundle of energy capable of seesawing between yearning and loathing without dropping the piping hot ball they are both so eager to hold onto. While laurels will be deservedly place upon their mantle, the most inspired casting feat of “Die, My Love” is Sissy Spacek as Jackson’s mother, Pam. The recently widowed woman is gregarious yet not overbearing, welcomingly bypassing the tired archetypal notion of the intrusive mother-in-law. 
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Most importantly, Pam allows Ramsay to explore one of the film’s most interesting parallels: how womanhood is drastically changed by two transitional griefs in motherhood and widowhood. Both women wrestle with a life that no longer exists but is still close enough to taste, living with one foot in each, unbalanced and unwilling to step on firm land on either side. “Die, My Love” is a film that heavily benefits from Ramsay’s willingness to linger on and prod at such rites and questions instead of neatly catering to tidy yet uninteresting answers. Those looking for the latter will never quite manage to fully enjoy the many pleasures of the former. Poor them. [A-]
MUBI has acquired “Die, My Love” for a release later this year.
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