THE STORY – 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 CAST – Sophie Thatcher, Charles Melton, Kristine Froseth, Havana Rose Liu & Diego Calva
THE TEAM – Nicolas Winding Refn (Director/Writer) & Esti Giordani (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 109 Minutes
Audience behavior at the Cannes Film Festival is notoriously infamous. Swinging between extreme highs with sitcom-episode length standing ovations and extreme lows with boos in the presence of film directors, the crowds here in the south of France are unafraid to vocally express themselves when a film ends. That is, if they even make it that far. Displeased viewers have no hesitation about storming out of a movie if it’s not to their liking, whether they’re five minutes in or there are only five minutes left. At this year’s festival, I’ve experienced no film with a more constant parade of departees than Nicolas Winding Refn’s “Her Private Hell.” I had a seat near the theater’s exit, and there was so much foot traffic that it felt just like being seated by the kitchen door at a busy restaurant. This shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone familiar with Refn, who makes movies that appeal more to those seeking a captivating aura rather than a perfectly tuned story. In that way, “Her Private Hell” lives up to its expectations, for better and worse. It’s a mean, nasty neo-giallo, filled with the genre’s standards: gorgeously odd visuals, colorful lighting, disparate performance qualities, questionable morals, and brutal moments of sudden violence. To those who are prepared for it and willing to go hand in hand with Refn on his colorful, nonsensical journey, it’s an adventure to be remembered, like a nightmare that leaves an indelible mark on the psyche.
This cinematic dream opens with a shot of a futuristic skyline, enveloped in an oppressive mist. We journey into the Tower Hotel, where the young actress Elle (Sophie Thatcher) is staying while shooting her latest film: a silly-looking sci-fi adventure. She meets one of her co-stars, Hunter (Kristine Froseth), an influencer with an appetite for clout, hoping to make it in the world of acting. Her new, young stepmom, Dominique (Havana Rose Liu), is there as well, establishing an uneasy dynamic among the three women.
That’s the set-up for the plot, but “Her Private Hell” isn’t really about that. “Vibes” is an overused term lately, with so many consumers of art and media seemingly valuing feeling over substance. But “Her Private Hell” will likely find its biggest fans among that type of audience. Adding to the generally dreadful atmosphere is the local legend of The Leather Man, a demonic entity searching for his lost daughter, who emerges when (or because of?) the arrival of the mist. The Leather Man is the owner of giallo-ready black murder gloves, but with a twist: sharp diamonds are embedded on the knuckles. Unsurprisingly to anyone who owns a Goblin-composed soundtrack on vinyl, the Leather Man brutally murders young women in order to replace in the afterlife (or avenge?) his missing daughter. The questions abound, but standard sense and clarity aren’t Refn’s concern.
Enough can’t be said of Pino Donaggio’s unbelievably beautiful score. He’s a frequent collaborator of Brian De Palma’s, with credits as the composer of “Carrie,” “Dressed to Kill,” “Blow Out,” “Body Double,” and others. Clearly, Refn wishes to draw comparison to the legendary director, but even without serving as a callback to past work, Donaggio’s music is singularly stunning. Using grand, sweeping strings in the style of Bernard Herrmann, the Italian composer adds a level of melancholic grandeur to the film, making it seem like a more consequential affair than it actually is. Refn owes so much of the film’s success to Donaggio that the composer practically deserves a co-director’s credit.
The same level of uniform praise can’t be given to the film’s acting ensemble. Every single on-screen individual gives a performance fitting for a different type of movie, which makes the already tenuously assembled structure of the film feel even more precarious. But maybe that’s the point; given that the films this one is clearly indebted to can hardly be called great examples of uniformly excellent acting, the bizarre performances in “Her Private Hell” can almost be excused. Froseth is the strangest of all, with her stilted line readings of the broadly declarative dialogue giving the impression that she’s being fed them word by word through an earpiece. And the coterie of gorgeous young women that Refn drapes around the expensive-looking furniture like throw pillows all feel similarly extraterrestrial whenever they speak. Thatcher is dynamic as the lead, fully leaning into the film’s wildness in its final act. And Liu is refreshingly playful, in contrast with the dour, serious mood of all around her. She has a knowing energy, almost as if she’s deliberately operating outside the film’s intentions, which makes sense given that her character has recently been brought into the world the film explores. Charles Melton is here too, as a mostly-mute soldier named Private K. He stalks through the vacant, foggy city, looking for the Leather Man in hopes of finding his daughter. While the women of the film mostly stay put in their high-rise, quite literally above the fog, Private K is down on street level, amongst the muck and degenerates, who represent the very few citizens shown.
But again, it must be reiterated that hoping for a legible, tangible plot with “Her Private Hell” is as useless as wishing on a star. As the film carries on, it gets even further and further away from its own story, content to bathe in neon and photograph its characters with a fetish-like appreciation; believe it or not, Melton’s body gets most of the camera’s leering attention, capturing his broad, muscular back with the same appreciative, gliding quality with which Refn films the film’s beautiful sets and costumes.
It seems paradoxical that an obscuring mist is what helps the Leather Man finally be able to seek out his missing daughter. For a concealing meteorological phenomenon to be a means of clarity suggests how the film should be watched: the more uncertain and odd things get in the world of “Her Private Hell,” the more viewers should trust the film’s energy and let it wash over them. Don’t fight the mist, just move through it.
