Director Steven Soderbergh returns to the cinema of anxiety he explored in 2013’s Side Effects. Here, he wraps a lump of toxic masculinity in a thick layer of mental distress and deep fries it in rancid insurance malfeasance, then matches the whole thing to a relentlessly discomfiting visual aesthetic: garish hues, harsh lighting, and the sort of invasive, off-kilter camera placement you might expect from a film about a woman and the stalker who just wants her to find love and happiness with him, him, him. Alarmingly, the bad guy is right about some things: our heroine Sawyer (Claire Foy, frayed) is indeed isolated, depressed, and a bit wobbly in the psyche. She didn’t even tell her mom why she moved to a new city (You know, because she had a stalker.) Even more alarmingly, he seems to have gotten a job in the very mental institution where Sawyer finds herself stuck after confessing to the occasional thought of self-harm. It’s an awful situation, enough to drive a person crazy. Lucky for her, she finds a friend on the inside, one who assures her she doesn’t really belong there. Which raises the question of just what is meant by the title. The answer is both nasty and spot-on. (2018) — Matthew Lickona