Photo: Netflix
Imagine a faded photograph of a bouquet of flowers. Blushing rose has mellowed into apricot and radiant gold into the color of wheat, as what was once a tangible object with weight and scent is reduced to a scrap of paper brittled by time. Someday soon, that paper will also disintegrate, a melancholy idea that’s expressed rather poetically in director Simon Stone’s otherwise stuffy adaptation of
The Dig. The subjects of this period drama are buried treasure and repressed longing, ephemeral things that—much like flowers or photographs—crumble when they’re exposed to oxygen.
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