It takes a unique mind to make a psychosexual fairytale featuring a leather-clad serial killer, futuristic vistas, and Tom of Finland levels of homoeroticism and make it boring. But Nicolas Winding Refn has achieved just that.
Ten years since his last feature (The Neon Demon), the director of Drive and Only God Forgives has indulged in some of his worst tendencies by making Her Private Hell a very public one.
You’ve been warned.
It opens promisingly enough, with mist engulfing a neon-soaked metropolis. A young woman, Elle (Sophie Thatcher), meets blushing ingénue Hunter (Kristine Froseth) in the lobby of the hotel she’s staying in. The two are meant to collaborate on a film adaptation of a sci-fi comic book called “Candy Floss”, set to be directed by Elle’s father, Johnny Thunders (Dougray Scott).
Little does Hunter realize that she’s entering into a world of pain… Elle is having to grapple with the reality of her greasy pops (who’s constantly surrounded by a hareem of models who call him “daddy”) shacking up with her former friend / lover Dominique (Havana Rose Liu), who is now her stepmother.
Meanwhile, the mist has brought along an urban legend: the dreaded figure known as The Leather Man. He’s a BDSM gimp with razor sharp diamond gloves and superhuman strength who likes to kill women and leave a gory mess behind. He’s being chased by Private K (Charles Melton), a military man who failed to protect his daughter and believes that stopping The Leather Man will reunite them.
If there’s one thing you can’t take away from Her Private Hell is that it’s visually striking. There is a lot to admire about the look and sound of this futuristic Giallo which initially feels like Suspiria set inside Tron: NWR’s cinematographer Magnus Nordenhof Jønck creates some moody visual compositions, while composer Pino Donaggio’s score gives Her Private Hell an appropriately melodramatic quality. Without their efforts, admiration would have faded far quicker.
When it does vanish for good, what remains is the definition of style over substance – a posturing and deeply banal mess of a film teeming with frustrating storytelling and faux Lynchian élans. It often feels like a series of erotically charged fashion commercials featuring all the clichéd non-sequiturs you’d expect from posing models who have downed fistfuls of Benzos.
Speaking of which, my brain activity slowed down as the runtime progressed, so much so that I abandoned taking notes during the film and started jotting down some of the stilted dialogue that populates NWR and Esti Giordani’s dire script.
“Aren’t you the poor little match girl – Hans Christian Andersen.”
Self-consciously name-checking one’s reference is embarrassing. It also isn’t metatextual. It’s barely textual.
“Daddy is fascinating.”
Using “Daddy” in a sexually loaded way needed to end yesterday.
“Stop” / “No you stop, this means something.”
No, it most demonstrably doesn’t.
“I am a wholly unique consciousness, and I am made of stardust.”
I wish I was made of stardust right now so I could blow away and not watch another minute of this preening drivel.
“I like freaky shit.”
Don’t we all, but chances are that if you have to signpost it, you’re a) terminally vanilla in the bedroom; and b) performative edgy to the point of self-deception.
“I am a victim of the mist.”
I am a victim of this film.
“This movie’s going to be hell.”
You took the words right out of my mouth.
For anyone who gets swept up in NWR’s horny daydream, more power to you. The director’s devoted fanbase will defend Her Private Hell as a heightened fairytale, in which the dialogue is purposefully mannered and the disjointed fever dream functions as self-aware provocation. Congratulations, you’ve found a vibes-over-narrative opera worth championing. And to be fair, the film within a film (a camp cross between Barberella and Star Trek) and the bursts of visceral violence in the Private K segments do liven things up. Kudos to Charles Melton, who temporarily makes you forget Sophie Thatcher’s annoying performance and Kristine Froseth’s incessant grinning. He’s the only one who makes it out of this unscathed.
Minor pull factors aside, discerning viewers will come to the conclusion that while it’s wonderful to witness a filmmaker who is content to just do his thing, Her Private Hell can’t be excused as the uncompromising vision of an enfant terrible. It’s far too vacuous and dull for that.
Her Private Hell premiered Out Of Competition in Cannes in May and is currently out in the US, Canada, Greece, Poland and Portugal. It screens on 16 August at the Edinburgh International Film Festival, and its European rollout continues next month.