Walter Chaw feeds into my obsession with this weird, wonderful film:
What’s impressive is Annihilation’s willingness and ability to evoke the soul-sickness that leads to great moments of art, great moments of self-destruction, and an equation of the two. Its heroes suffer from cinematic time: years can pass and outside the theatre it’s a mere two hours. They suffer, too, from this idea that you can enter into a space, experience something that is entirely alien, and then re-emerge struggling to articulate the crucible of your experience. How many versions of your old selves have you left behind in a museum, a theatre, a concert hall, a book? Is it a thousand? How many new versions have emerged into the uncanny bright of the day outside?