A humour of oppressive horror gives way to a black humour like Celeste’s (actually written, along with other original songs, by Sia) becomes a healing anthem for a mourning America. It’s not long before the vultures of the music industry surround her like a fresh corpse. Under the questionable guidance of a rudely tired manager (Jude Law), she has been dragged down the path of stardom and sent to Stockholm on a recording journey that quickly accelerates her loss of innocence. After sleeping with a British rocker one night, she tells him a recurring and distressing dream, in a way that suggests she’s still dealing with PTSD. And if not much attention had yet been paid to the millennium change scenario, a pointy shot of the Twin Towers serves as a jarring reminder that around the corner hides a greater collective trauma.