Together: Movie Review (Don't Watch It until This 😱)

You've got to watch this movie 🍿🎥. The first time I watched the thriller, I almost threw my phone away. It was soooo scary.

Some call it the best horror movie of the year. It crawls into your skin. I didn’t expect to cry. Not that day. I just wanted a film to pass the time, something light, something background-worthy while I half-scrolled through my phone. But Together found a way into me. Like a whisper turning into a scream, like a slow wave rising until it drowns you before you even think to swim, this movie didn’t just unfold; it confronted me.

I found Together on a night when it was raining quietly, a night when you are in bed but your mind is walking around your house in rooms that you thought you had padlocked many years before. There had been some rumors about it--a lockdown picture, they called it. Two characters. One house. Raw emotion. Others referred to it as claustrophobic, others brilliant. I hit play out of curiosity and thought that it might be a pandemic commentary. Instead I received an autopsy of love, resentment, healing and what it means to be human when trapped in a space you cannot remove yourself, not physically--but emotionally as well.

It stars James McAvoy and Sharon Horgan, who do not even have names as characters. They are just He and She. A pair of people--no, rather not that any more. They are alienated, tired, and blatantly sick of one another. They have to share that house when the COVID-19 lockdown comes and all of them are to raise their son, cope with grief, politics, love, and rage all without imploding.

So what is so special about it? They are fourth-wall breakers. They address us. They include us, they admit us, as spectators of their verbal battle, their little collapses, as it were, accomplices. You laugh at their sarcasm one minute, and the next one you are holding your breath as a long buried trauma is revealed like a forgotten grave in the backyard.

There’s something terrifyingly honest about watching two people who used to love each other now barely stand the sight of one another—but still tethered by a child, by shared memories, and a strange, unspoken understanding that goes deeper than love. There’s a moment where they talk about their son—how he watches them, listens even when they think he’s not—and it breaks me. Because I realized how often we think our emotional mess is contained when really, it seeps into every corner of our lives, especially into the lives of those we protect.

The grief, too, is real. She loses her mother to COVID, and the way Horgan delivers that monologue, it felt so real it’s not acting. It’s possession. I felt like I was sitting beside her, feeling the guilt, the anger, the unfairness. I wanted to hug my own mother after that scene. And McAvoy? His silent breakdown, his inability to express sorrow the “correct” way it was too close to home. We grieve so differently, and often, we expect others to match our pain rhythm, forgetting that emotion has no rulebook.

Watching Together was like standing in front of a mirror that didn’t just reflect my face—it showed everything I’ve tried to ignore. The arguments that went unresolved. The guilt I buried. The conversations I didn’t have. The love I pretended not to need.

I thought about the lockdown days when emotions could not go anywhere. When it was comfort and curse to be silent. When my friends and family around me were like egg shells and I was at a loss to do anything. Together brings out that moment in time when the world was at a standstill and there was no way around and emotions were forced to surface.

The hardest part was the fact that the movie did not provide some happy ending. No dramatic reconciliation, no Hollywood kiss, just... realness. Two individuals transformed. Perhaps better. Perhaps not. But real. And perhaps that is what healing is sometimes: not big declarations, but small acknowledgments.

Among other things, the drive to be uncomfortable is one of the reasons why Together is brilliant. It allows discussions to go on until they break. It waits on quiet till it smarts. It does not clean up emotions to make the pacing work. And that is where the beauty is, it leaves it up to the audience to sit in the mess.

It is also a study of the crisis between masculinity and femininity. He is brash, unpolitically correct, emotionally inarticulate. She is metered, exhausted, emotionally literate and strung out. They go round and round one another with words that stab and then heal. And yet somehow there is love in the screaming. Not the roses-and-rainbows thing. But the tenacious, agonized, most human kind that queries: Can we survive not just the world—but each other?

Together isn’t for everyone. It’s intimate. Talky. Unapologetically intense. But if you’ve ever loved and lost, if you’ve ever been in a room with someone and still felt miles apart, if you’ve ever watched your own anger poison something sacred, this movie will find you. And if you let it, it might just hold your hand through the storm.

This isn’t just a film. It’s a therapy session disguised as art. It’s a time capsule of what it meant to survive emotionally during a global shutdown. It’s two people, yes, but it’s also all of us, trying to make sense of pain, politics, death, parenting, love, and the strange, stubborn act of still showing up.

So yeah. I watched Together because I was bored. But it didn’t let me stay that way. It dragged my heart into the open, placed it under a microscope, and whispered truths I wasn’t ready to hear but desperately needed.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this. Because somewhere out there, someone else needs that too.

Let them watch it. Let it wreck them. Then let them heal.

Because in the end, we’re all just trying to survive, together.

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