Over the past week, my Instagram feed has been practically throwing "My Oxford Year" at me, with Tumblr-text captions over softly lit stills, reels romanticising ancient libraries and English cities, and teary-eyed confessions that claim this film destroyed them, in the best way. And like any curious cinephile, I clicked to watch it on Netflix. What I found was a film trying to be both the dream and the ache, the fantasy and the wake-up call.
Over the past week, my Instagram feed has been practically throwing "My Oxford Year" at me, with Tumblr-text captions over softly lit stills, reels romanticising ancient libraries and English cities, and teary-eyed confessions that claim this film destroyed them, in the best way. And like any curious cinephile, I clicked to watch it on Netflix. What I found was a film trying to be both the dream and the ache, the fantasy and the wake-up call.
