They will not show you the film. They will barely hint at it. That is all you are getting until you decide.

A girl, twenty-two. An apartment. A book. A laugh. She has minutes left of the life she knows. She does not know which minutes. Nobody ever does. By the end of this page, you will know more about her body than her mother ever did. We are sorry. The film made us this way.

She walks out of the building alone. Then she does something no actress has sustained before, in any film we have been able to find, in any country, in any decade. She walks naked for seventy-three minutes. Not a scene. Not a sequence. Seventy-three consecutive minutes. Not as image. Not as provocation. There is a reason. The film will tell you. We will not. The film begins where your discomfort ends.

A country opens around her. A man. A doctor. A butcher. A village. A soldier. Each of them wants something from her body. Each of them gets some of it. She keeps walking. The film does not turn away. We do not believe you should be allowed to either.

We did not build this country on a set. We went to four of them. All four at war while we were filming. The shoot took two years. What you will see on screen is what was happening fifty meters from the camera. Some of the places in the frame no longer exist. Some of the people who let us into their houses are not alive to see this page. We are not going to tell you which.

Then, in a forest, paper begins to fall from the trees. She reads one. She reads it again. Her hands stop obeying her. She begins to run. She has remembered something she had been holding shut with both hands. For the first time in the film, you will want her to stop running. She will not.

What she finds at the end of the run is the reason this film has no poster. It is the reason we cannot show you a still. It is the reason you must ask. This is not an anti-war film. There have been hundreds of those. They have changed nothing. This is a film against the men who write books about war, sell books about war, profit from war, dine on war, sleep through war. No one has made this film before. We have looked. We have looked very carefully. The film does not arrive at hope. It arrives at a wall. And a promise made, once, through laughter.