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JUSTIN TANNER REVIEWS DON'T WORRY DARLING
Katie Byron’s bright, candy-colored production design — with its burnished wood accents, greener than green lawns, and clockwork, choreographed parade of vintage automobiles (including a 1962 C1 Chevrolet Corvette) — is the most successful aspect of Olivia Wilde’s well-intentioned, yet grievously overlong, sophomore film, “Don’t Worry Darling.” Set in a not quite believable prefab community in the deserts of Palm Springs (during what appears to be the early sixties), the film is an apt feminist allegory about consent, that quickly deflates its own relevance by piling on a needlessly tangled (non) mystery whose reveal we can see coming a mile away. Wilde, in addition to directing, plays the supporting role of Bunny, one of the perky “Stepford Wives” who populate the community, happily cooking and cleaning and having sex with their straight-out-of “Mad Men” husbands. And with her tightly controlled physicality and intelligent, questing eyes — that hint at secrets and desires bubbling just under the surface — Wilde is easily the best thing in the film. Florence Pugh (”Midsommar”), on the other hand, never quite finds her groove; her Alice is strangely out of sync with the rest of the cast. At first this seems fitting for the character, a woman who is starting to sense that her perfect world is not quite what it appears to be. But as the film progresses, we realize it’s Florence, the actress, not Alice, the character, who is having the problem. Pugh’s performance, wan and tentative to begin with, settles into a blank-eyed torpor by the second act. Instead of showing us a woman who is slowly losing her mind (which the part cries out for) Pugh decides to spend a full forty minutes looking like someone who can’t quite remember where she left her keys. The collection of husbands (with the exception of Timothy Simons’ cartoonish evil doctor character) make vivid impressions with their relatively short screen time. Nick Kroll (”The League”) and Douglas Smith (”Big Love”) in particular bring a delightfully playful authenticity to their roles. And the pop singer Harry Styles gently smolders with a low Celsius — but highly watchable — flame. His joy is apparent, especially when grinding on co-star Pugh, something he does quite a bit of. Chris Pine (Captain Kirk in the ”Star Trek” reboot) has built a career channeling William Shatner, and it works here beautifully. He’s grown into his vulpine features and there’s something overripe and louche about his demeanor that brings to mind the “Kiss of Death” era Victor Mature.
Of the women, Kate Berlant registers best in the role of a gossipy, pregnant wife; her expressive eyes and ripe mouth are perfect for comedy. But, like most of the supporting cast, she is used far too little. In fact whenever the other residents retreat to their own houses and we’re left with Pugh cracking empty eggshells into a bowl, or wrapping Saran Wrap around her head (don’t ask) or inexplicably getting squished by a wall against a pane of glass, the movies stops dead.
And though the bizarre imagery provokes in us a fun sense of momentary confusion — and a strong desire for “the mystery” to be solved — when the curtain is finally pulled back, none of the weird set pieces end up making sense. It’s all disconnected gibberish. Wilde’s heart is in the right place, and her visual sense and ability to coax performances from (most) of her actors is commendable. It simply takes too long to get where she’s going. With a tighter rein, and a pair of heavy shears, perhaps the ending would’ve been met with a gasp instead of a shrug. But the failure is as much Pugh’s as it is Wilde’s. After all, it’s Pugh we spend 90% of the movie looking at. And with her seemingly-bored and monochromatic take on distress, she effectively flatlines her own performance and, sadly, takes the movie with her. IN THEATERS
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