Oh, great. This guy again.
Nicolas Winding Refn is a controversial filmmaker for a great many reasons. The long and short is that it’s difficult to tell how full of shit he is. Refn is an inconsistent filmmaker who makes experimental and exotic films, such that everyone has their own opinion about whether he’s a pretentious fraud or a genius visionary. The guy monograms his film titles, for fuck’s sake. His production company is seriously titled “byNWR”.
To be sure, Refn is still coasting on his accolades from Drive, a marvelous suspense caper that reinvented and rejuvenated Ryan Gosling’s career. Trouble is, that film from 15 years ago is still Refn’s best and best-known picture. Nobody talks about the hateful trash heap that was Only God Forgives, and The Neon Demon was a self-indulgent mess that failed all expectations.
By all appearances, Her Private Hell was made and marketed as a Neon Demon do-over. Same neon-tinged visuals, same female-centric themes and plotline, and we’ve got another hot young up-and-comer (Sophie Thatcher this time) in the lead. Only this time, we’ve got a Japanese/American production. Not that it makes any difference at all.
We lay our scene in some city covered in impenetrable mist and pink/blue neon lighting. Also, the first we ever see of it is a giant statue of some guy’s head. Thus the message is sent loud, clear, and immediately that this film is not intended to be set in any time or place that’s recognizable or rational. On the one hand, it’s a terrible waste of the Japanese flavor, to have so many Japanese actors and images in a film that otherwise makes no use of the culture. On the other hand, Refn’s works (especially post-Drive) have all been so absurdly heightened, putting this story in its own little fantasy world significantly helps suspension of disbelief.
Thatcher plays Elle, a successful young actor whose father (Johnny Thunders, played by Dougray Scott) is bankrolling her latest movie. By all appearances, it’s some kind of ’60s-esque space opera comic book adaptation called “Candyfloss”. The kicker is that Elle is costarring with Dominique (Havana Rose Liu), who used to be Elle’s best friend until she went and married Elle’s father. So now Johnny is leaving his wife and daughter alone to shoot a movie together in the hopes that they’ll patch things up. Not like there’s any chance of that happening in a Nicol– sorry, a “NWR” movie.
While that’s going on, there’s the matter of Kay (Charles Melton), an American Army vet who’s gone vigilante following the disappearance of his daughter. The apparent culprit is the “Leatherman”, who’s apparently some kind of demonic figure, but there are so many incongruous urban legends that we never learn what exactly his deal is. The bottom line is that the Leatherman is a kind of bogeyman who comes up from the mist to hunt girls.
Last but not least, there’s Hunter, played by Kristine Froseth. She’s another one of Elle’s castmates, a bright-eyed and brainless blonde. She’s only there for comic relief and to act as a sounding board for the other characters. So you know she’s going to die or turn evil at some point.
From start to finish, the visuals are spellbinding. The editing, the lighting, the framing, everything is atmospheric and evocative to an impressive degree. The production design is certainly unique, as overwrought and melodramatic as any of the performances on display.
The film does not lack for personality. Trouble is, it lacks pretty much everything else.
Surprisingly, the film has basically nothing in common with The Neon Demon except the one crucial thing that matters: Beauty as an end in itself. The characters look flawlessly gorgeous as they drone on and on over nothing in particular. The world looks immaculate and yet the world-building makes no sense. The dialogue is hamfisted and yet the themes are incoherent. The plot is messy to the point of nonexistent.
It’s frankly pathetic how each individual piece is interesting, yet none of them fit together in any kind of fulfilling or cogent way. It’s baffling how so much time and talent was put into a movie in which the characters talk so much and yet the film says absolutely nothing.
I’m calling it, folks: Nicolas Winding Refn is a humbug. Her Private Hell is clearly and irrefutably the work of a filmmaker who’s all sizzle and no steak. He makes films that are so beautiful, so melodramatic, so dense in opaque visuals and bizarre ideas that it’s almost — ALMOST — enough to trick the audience into thinking that there’s something going on under the surface. Not anymore. He’s worn out his welcome.
I sat in a movie theater full of people who met the ending title card with a bewildered reaction of “What the fuck did any of that mean?” Any such movie is not looking forward to a good write-up. The PTB made the right call dumping this to be forgotten in the wake of The Odyssey. Not recommended.