These women are mothers, daughters, wives, spectators, lovers, mistresses. Observers and commentators. Actors and reactors. Dressed up bright as children or submerged in the grey elegance of Paris, they shift readily between roles, countries, and languages. They are skilled and successful. They control how much they care. Yet as every new woman emerges and every new story is told, each with a sharper, more deadpan, more aching simplicity, the calm surfaces of Joanna Walsh's Vertigo shatter, pulling us deep into the terror that underlies everyday life.