Director: Nicolas Winding Refn
Writer: Nicolas Winding Refn
Stars: Sophie Thatcher, Charles Melton, Havana Rose Liu
Synopsis: When a mysterious mist engulfs a futuristic metropolis, unleashing a deadly and elusive entity, a troubled young woman searches for her father. Her quest collides with an American GI on a harrowing odyssey to rescue his daughter from Hell.
The last thing you ever want to happen to a new theatrical release is for it to get leaked online, but in the case of Her Private Hell, it may have been for the best. Somehow, a savvy Twitter user (read: the worst person you’ve never met) got their hands on a high-definition digital copy of Nicolas Winding Refn’s first feature film in a decade, uploaded it to a site called gofile.io (where, apparently, these pirate’s efforts often end up), and let the world check out the Danish auteur’s latest neon-coated trip for free. The film had only been out in limited theatrical release for, say, 24 hours when the link went live; it has since been deleted, but it’s made the rounds.
Aside from the fact that this is exactly what no one should be asking for when it comes to a fever dream of an independent film being shown on just 675 screens, it did get people talking about Refn’s sci-fi melodrama. Perhaps partial credit is owed to its cast being made up of a handful of chronically online favorites like Sophie Thatcher (surging), Havana Rose Liu (ditto), Charles Melton (red hot), and Diego Calva (the people have been aching for more since Babylon, and On Swift Horses didn’t scratch the itch in full) – basically a handful of young stars who have fan-run social media accounts dedicated to chronicling their every move. But the people are talking! Sure, it may be in a mocking tone and in response to a scene in which a moody actress named Elle (Thatcher) and her best friend-turned-stepmom Dominique (Liu) communicate like dogs, barking, panting, and playfully whining at one another while their wannabe companion Hunter (Kristine Froseth) wonders what in God’s name is happening. But they’re talking!
The characters, in this particular sequence, are using a “secret language” that they devised as children. Totally normal stuff. The online discussion surrounding a “by NWR” production better characterized as a mood piece than a true genre offering, however, could be seen as both a bellwether and a cause for concern. For one, Her Private Hell lost over 100 of its theaters in its second weekend and earned just $358 per. That safely confirms that only a fraction of the true cinephile community even bothered to go out and see it; having seen it twice, I can confirm that it’s a bit easier to complain about its failings on the web than it is to write about what it even is in review form. If there’s a specific reason I’ve yet to dive into its positives, negatives, and non-issues (wrap it up), it’s because Refn’s giallo-lite is a beautiful mess that isn’t so much indecipherable as it is not asking to be deciphered. It exists, in all its glory, whether you like it or not – and whether you think any of it is glorious or not.
Most films and the teams that made them may shudder at such a notion, but Refn exists outside the majority of everything. His attitude has seemingly rubbed off on his choice for top billing, the aforementioned Thatcher, whose starlet heroine kinda-sorta spends the film searching for her father, Johnny Thunder (Dougray Scott), though she spends more time snarling at her scene partners than she does seeking daddy out in the way you might think. That’s fine by Refn and co.: “I don’t want it to be exclusive, but it does feel like it is kind of for an audience that if you know these ‘70s films, and you know some of the references it’s pulling from, it feels so satisfying and gratifying,” Thatcher told Variety in July. “I like that it’s polarizing because that means it’s affecting people. I don’t want to be safe or boring. This movie, I understand why people won’t like it. I totally get it. It’s about keeping an open mind — and being down, mainly.”
“Being down” really is the only way for Her Private Hell to be experienced; even then, it’s sure to ruffle feathers. Yet you can’t help but credit Refn for staying true to a vision with no holds barred, something we often ask filmmakers to do, only to balk when it doesn’t fit the exact specifications of what we had in mind. Her Private Hell never sets out to satisfy anyone’s itches, rather it tickles in order to make new ones and then, potentially, scratch those. Or, it may leave you hanging, the nagging tingle out of your reach, just the way it meant to. If you’re looking for general observations, one could call Refn’s work here an homage to multiple eras of cinematic expression, from the gialli of yore (Italian murder mysteries made by Dario Argento and others, less successfully) to horror, works of sexploitation, and the like. There is an enigma to squint at here, one that sees a young father, Melton’s Private K, tracking the whereabouts of his missing daughter while simultaneously searching for a notorious serial killer known as The Leather Man. There’s a drama to be found, a “will they/won’t they” of sorts that doesn’t wonder whether or not Elle and Dominique will make out, but stop sniping at one another long enough to kiss and make up. The latter’s marriage to her best friend’s father, at least 30 years their senior, fractured the duo’s friendship to a point where they now merely tolerate one another’s presences because they are bound together by a massive diamond ring.
There is also the persistent question of how these chess pieces all fit on the same board. What are Hunter’s true intentions? Froseth gives her the sensibility of a malicious virgin with her performance, a doe-eyed, smiley giggle of a turn that always feels like it’s hiding something. Does Dominique actually want to repair her bond with her true soulmate of the not-entirely-romantic ilk, or is she hiding something, too? Liu’s nonchalance is transfixing in the part; she’s a wonderful actor, and while there’s little range to be explored here, she laps up every scene like it’s a plate begging to be cleaned. And, hey, what’s the deal with the tall, sweaty, sulky drink of water who seems to have come here only to smoke cigarettes and kick ass, and he’s all out of cigarettes? It’s a part that Melton was practically born to play, and not just because it lets him roam around in a leather jacket with no undershirt for a spell. He, too, is a tremendous performer, one whose wings have spread so aggressively since his early days that they clipped Riverdale during takeoff, threatening to send it careening towards ancient history on his CV. It’s fun to watch him play.
Her Private Hell is Thatcher’s film, however, insofar that it can belong to anyone other than the artisan looming outside of the frame. She is the possessor of the private hell in question, though it seems an awful lot more like a playground for the actor. In an ensemble that is nothing if not committed as a whole, it feels as if Thatcher has co-authored the vibe, as it were, so entrenched in its rich pink and blue visuals (shot by the Danish cinematographer Magnus Nordenhof Jønck) and in strut with Pino Donaggio’s instantly iconic score that she might as well have crafted Refn’s chosen elements herself. If it had come in a more coherent, accessible package, Her Private Hell might have gone down as a career-defining performance for Thatcher. In time, that could still be.
The short time the film has had to breathe, however, has not been the kindest, not to Refn, and not to his long-awaited return to moviemaking. I’m not sure how kind I’m really being, either, so it should be noted here: I liked Her Private Hell, even if I’m still sorting out exactly how much. Appreciating art for art’s sake and not setting out to find things right or wrong with a film is how I’ve been approaching criticism lately, primarily because there’s plenty of worthwhile writing out there for those in search of a “yes” or “no” reaction to consider. If anything, this is a soft yes, but heed Thatcher’s words, those of which I’ll adopt: It’s about being down. You could do a lot worse.
