By John Corrado
Her Private Hell is the latest film from Danish filmmaker Nicolas Winding Refn, whose 2011 thriller Drive starring Ryan Gosling is the closest thing he’s had to a mainstream hit, and a far better movie than anything he’s made since.
This is Refn’s first film in a decade since 2016’s The Neon Demon, and it once again finds him bordering on self-parody, while languishing in his lurid, psychosexual sensibilities and fully doubling down on his approach of embracing visual aesthetics over narrative cohesion.
The result is a mix of high camp fashion melodrama, Giallo homage, serial killer thriller, and hazy arthouse dreamscape, set to a synth-heavy score from Italian composer Pino Donaggio. Refn’s muse this time around is Elle (Sophie Thatcher), a young actress in a futuristic city. She is joined by younger ingenue Hunter (Kristine Froseth), and mother-in-law Dominique (Havana Rose Liu).
A mysterious mist engulfs the city, a plot point that exists simply so Refn can ape a Blade Runner-esque aesthetic. And there’s a serial killer called The Leather Man, who stalks the city in fetish gear, having sex with women and then killing them. This fusion of sex and violence has become a hallmark of Refn’s work. We also follow Private K (Charles Melton), an American soldier searching this hellscape for his kidnapped daughter.
The film meanders through these plot points, with lead performances that show little urgency, and characters that could be described simply as dolls or action figures for Refn to play with, making them fight, and, well, you know. The plot itself feels nearly incoherent at times, with every inch of the film being highly stylized, right down to the often intentionally terrible dialogue that falls somewhere between soap opera and porno (the plot has aspects of one, too).
It’s a film that often looks striking, from Magnus Nordenhof Jønck’s neon-infused cinematography to a handful of well-choreographed fight scenes. Refn knows how to stage a fight scene, such as stylish sequences when Melton’s character takes on the Yakuza (and a sumo wrestler?). The camera also loves Melton’s chiselled abs, adding to the film’s eye candy. But there is precious little underneath the surface, and the film’s sluggish pacing makes it feel like Refn is purposefully testing our patience at times.
Refn’s film is purely style over substance, but perhaps that is the point? Does the vapidness of his work, all surface-level beauty that is ultimately hollow underneath, represent a more existential, nihilistic worldview? It’s a film that doesn’t evoke lobby conversations afterwards about whether or not it is good, but rather whether or not you were into the vibe of it. Some people will be, many others won’t be.
The Joy of Movies 