Don't Worry Darling - 2022
This review may contain spoilers.
As the credits began to roll on Don't Worry Darling, I was struck by a pretty resounding thought: "This wasn't ALL bad." Immediately thereafter I began to interrogate why that musing had arisen in the first place. Given all the hand-wringing about the Venice premiere of the film and daggers thrown by critics near and far at its director and overall construction, I was braced for a near trainwreck. Instead, I was greeted with a film which not only held my attention but actually erected an intriguing construction - a mystery with ominous underpinnings. Now, one may think, having said all this, that I'd recommend the film heartily. On the contrary, nothing would be further from the truth. Why, you ask. Put simply - I began to think.
Once your prefrontal cortex becomes engaged in this affair, the entire edifice begins to fall like a house of cards. Before I begin the weed-whacking, however, allow me to say a little more about the positives. This film was shot by Matthew Libatique. So, if any readers felt that the cinematography was quite impressive but were too afraid to say so given the picture's backlash, have fear no longer. As a big Aronofsky fan, I can tell you that this dude is a stud, and this film LOOKS fantastic. Moreover, and along the same lines, the production design, the 50's raiment and automobiles, set interiors, etc. are all excellent. In the first hour at least (we'll call this the "setup"), Olivia Wilde had a work that was humming along fairly nicely.
To be honest, I feel quite similarly about the sound design as well. For some, the sounds and sights infiltrating the narrative will feel garish or overly harsh. For me, they added to the intrigue. This really is a work that does a solid job of creating a world full of atmosphere and then bringing emotions like paranoia and claustrophobia to the fore. Again, the mounting tension and sense of dis-ease is effectively rendered for the first 75 minutes of the picture.
Many critics have sounded off on the pacing of this picture. Words like "slow" or "inert" come to mind. I certainly see the argument, but I would contend that the "build" held my attention well. This is because of one factor above all, the captivating grace and almost primal presence of Florence Pugh. I spent the first 30 minutes wondering if this was a horrible miscast. But as the conflict at the film's heart began to rise to the surface, I realized she was the perfect actress for this work. No one does trapped in a cult with confusing context clues and sickening discoveries better than "Miss Flo." Which is to say, as a heroine battling back against gaslighting, she is without peer.
Alongside her there is the grand "nothing burger" of Harry Styles' performance, which is neither as bad as denigrators say or as good as his hordes of fans espouse. He simply IS, and in the pristine but vapid arena of this 50's suburban pastiche, he rather fits quite nicely. By contrast, Chris Pine is always a value add to a picture, yet here I wanted even more of his commanding presence.
Even so, this film, as all works of art must, inevitably reaches its third act. There, disasters in both conception and messaging await. The Stepford Wives and films as far and wide as The Truman Show and Serenity have been bandied about in comparison to Don't Worry Darling. Would that this picture's reveal were anything close to the former! Instead we get the ridiculous Matrix-esque construction of a virtual world apparently arising from incels falling captive to the charms of rabid podcasters online.
If this isn't enough, think further and watch the pieces continue to tumble. The inciting incident for both Pugh's Alice character and a Margaret before her (KiKi Layne in an underutilized turn) is a plane crashing in the desert. But if you've built a virtual world, why have planes flying at all, let alone crashing, near your grand secret in the first place? That seems horribly counterproductive. Is this a glitch in the matrix? If so, why aren't there others? Moreover, just who are these men in the red suits? Are they also incel users "plugged into" this world, commissioned as some kind of mission control security force? Oh now you've gotten lost in the weeds, Nick, you say. But have I?
Fine, let's back off the particulars for the moment (though there are more left untapped...Gemma Chan's awakening? Hello!) I suppose the explanation for why these men would want to retroactively build a paradise where they've zombified their partners into domestic servitude and consensual marital bliss is...satisfactory. Something like - When you're poor, lonely, and living in broken down conditions every day, you dream of brighter tomorrows by reliving, nay reconstructing, the halcyon glory of days gone by. I'm not certain, however, that the film effectively communicates this sentiment to its audience. At the very least, it feels antiquated and sort of like a retread of far better films from decades past.
One more matter remains. Olivia Wilde largely "sold" this picture with the steadfast assertion that it was a new wave feminist flick that explored the realm of female pleasure. See, she seems to avow, watch Harry Styles go down on Flo Pugh with ferocity. Witness the pleasure of a woman subversively foregrounded in a picture that reeks of subjugation. Ok sure, but once the reveal occurs, Don't Worry actually makes the very OPPOSITE point! These big O's are occurring in virtual worlds alone. In the real world, Florence the surgeon is rightfully too tired to copulate. Thus, it is only by shoving females into a simulation, by forcibly, without their consent, plugging them into this world that the "pleasure" occurs. We have a word for that sort of behavior nowadays, friends. It's called sexual assault.
So I end with a kind of caveat. This film wasn't half bad...SO LONG AS you turn most of your brain off and don't think too hard about the themes it is underscoring. Watch the sights and sounds. Revel in the costumes, cocktails, and garnishes. Stand witness to the greatness of Florence Pugh, a leading thespian of this generation. But don't try too hard to make it make sense. I'm sorry, Olivia. Spitgate was an unaccounted for hiccup that we cannot hang on your shoulders. But making an overstuffed picture, crowded with visual images, a dud of a reveal that simply amounts to convenient memory recurrence, and plot beats that cut across your desired takeaways...yeah, that one is all on you.
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