What is a woman’s body for? The question circles for many days as I process Spencer, a paranoic, at times absurdist, portrait of Diana, Princess of Wales. Spencer is set during the Royal Family’s Christmas celebrations in 1991, just months before she and Charles will be formally separated. The film is immersive and troubling, a destabilising watch that reminded me of Aronofsky’s Black Swan and Hitchcock’s Rebecca. All week people asked me if I liked it. ‘Like’ doesn’t come into it, I said. I posit that there are only two ways to engage with Spencer, either you hate it. Or…

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