clark isn’t mansplaining; he’s spiraling, talking to himself as much as her. she listens just enough to keep it real.
the cab’s not a stage—it’s limbo. two strangers caught between past and future, sharing something messy. vulnerability, not power, drives it.
and it looks great—blurry city lights, cozy taxi glow. imperfect but lingering, like a late-night chat you can’t shake.
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This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
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sorrentino envisions a divine goddess and then spends two hours wondering why she won’t talk back. it’s as if he’s trapped in a hall of mirrors, mistaking his own reflection for truth. beautiful, yes—profound, no.
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