A woman sits at a window in a rocking chair, rocking to and fro, talking to herself. Is she mad? Is she senile? Occasionally she speaks out loud. Fuck life, she says at the end, and stops moving. Is she dead? Rockaby belongs to the same universe as all Beckett’s work. It’s drawn from the same single, stern perspective, and has his characteristic taut musicality, clarity and ability to give small shocks. It’s like an incantation set in language that’s both odd and commonplace, with silence as an eloquent partner and the rocking of the chair a muted percussion. Is it less Beckett if it’s a film than if it’s fifteen minutes on a stage with a live audience? The real question is: does it hold your attention? I think so. (With: Penelope Wilton. 14 mins.)