The film adaptation of Michael Cunningham's novel tells three intertwining stories about three women faced with three different tasks on one insignificant (and in this way, wholly significant) day.
This is the project of The Hours: to spin the same fragile fabric from which Woolf weaves her grand design, here patterned, there random, slipping from image to image, thought to thought.
The Hours suggested to me that queerness could be fluid, mysterious, neither hidden nor announced.
