Her Private Hell: A Baffling Neon Experiment With Immaculate Vibes

Polarizing Film from Polarizing Director

Massive walkouts and less-than-stellar reviews out of Cannes aren’t concerning because it is a sign that Nicolas Winding Refn has a new film out. Polarizing doesn’t really do the filmmaker’s work justice; the rating spread on Letterboxd for any of his films ranges from the worst movie ever made to a low-key masterpiece and everything in between. Refn is incapable of making a film with any sort of consensus – Drive notwithstanding – and Her Private Hell is no different. A neon-soaked giallo Megalopolis but somehow weirder, hornier, and less narratively coherent, it exists as an artifact that only Refn understands, leaving the audience scratching their heads in utter confusion no matter what side of the rating scale they land on.

There’s honestly no point in trying to unpack what happens in Her Private Hell. I’m not entirely convinced a plot exists in the first place let along any semblance of a synopsis. But unlike its pejorative comps, its lack of narrative shape and coherence is by design rather than bug born out of pretentious passion projects. Her Private Hell is alluring nonsense, soaked in a vibe and hot people aura farming yet purposefully inaccessible, approached with a cold and calculating pastiche and hyper-stylized homage. We talk about style over substance all the time, and at first glance your instinct would be correct to label Her Private Hell as a committer of this common crime. But Refn, engrossed in his own weird, personal catharsis flips this pitfall on its head by resting the whole of his film on a simple inverted principle: the style IS the substance.

The Style Is the Story

There’s no real substance – at least none that can be deciphered without digging around in Refn’s brain or knowing about some major events that happened in his life – because the style itself IS the story. I jest about the comp being Megalopolis, but on inspiration and execution it actually shares more bones with Reflections in a Dead Diamond, a sensory overload meant to retrace the steps of its inspired genres to both construct and deconstruct its parts.

Her Private Hell exists for a director to wrestle with a near death experience (he actually died for 25 minutes and this is the film he made to share what that was like so make of that what you will)and the audience to relish in a sea of Italian cinema and neo-noir cliches. The characters exists as auras, the dialogue is all platitudes and delusions of grandeur, the line delivery is stilted and forced and the score is booming with distracting melodrama.

THIS is what makes Her Private Hell. The craft is no longer in service of the story because every aspect of filmmaking is the story itself. The colors, the angles, the sexually charged overtones, the caricature characters, the disconnected scenes, the violence etc are all in service of the style which is interchangeable with the story itself. Her Private Hell is all vibes, and depending on your willingness to let this bizarre experiment unfold, the vibes be vibin’. I found myself enamored one minute and desperately looking for an exit the next. In the great words of Benoit Blanc, “It makes no damn sense. Compels me though.” That’s how it feels to watch Her Private Hell, and if you feel yourself wanting to leave I’d argue it’s because you’re looking for meaning in the wrong places.

A Personal Experiment Whose Existence IS The Meaning

That’s not a knock on you, by the way. Most people sitting down for Her Private Hell have no idea what awaits them and don’t have the context to put the pieces together. I won’t pretend I knew prior, either. I knew nothing of giallo cinema and didn’t know Refn died for 25 minutes. Both of those things would’ve been incredibly helpful heading into the theater as these two bits of knowledge unlock its core and gives purpose to its obtuse style. That’s pretty alienating – very few cinephiles or movie goers are going to do a deep dive into fringe Italian genres or read up on what’s been going on in the personal life of the director – and Her Private Hell heavily relies on the foreknowledge of these things just to unlock the door.

Like Tenet though, all it can do is open the doors. Once you’re inside, you’re guess is as good as mine as to what to make of what’s going in the room where it’s happening. Yet even amid all the confusion in the mist, Her Private Hell possesses such a hypnotic quality that even when it doesn’t make sense you can’t seem to look away. It’s an unhinged thriller, part Giallo, part Blade Runner, part Neon Demon, part Only God Forgives, part Megalopolis, and many more all rolled into one in a puzzle made from multiple boxes.

Excessive in sex and violence, alluring in its brilliantly neon lit colors, and over the top in every single action that takes places. How it all comes together is irrelevant. Her Private Hell is like someone throwing away the instructions of a Lego set and making something completely new that only the creator understands and can tell you what it is. But instead of doing that, they just look at you and say “What do you mean you don’t see it?!”

A Quick Highlight Reel of Standouts

Rather than try to unpack a plot or attempt to map out a narrative, the standout pieces that make whatever this is work are more suited for highlights. Sophie Thatcher continues her epic run through the fringe horror and thriller genre, proving that she not only seeks out the weird but excels at it. Charles Melton – build like a Greek God and spending most of his screen time shirtless and aura farming – also continues to demonstrate immense range and variety. His presence is enough, lit in neon blues and pinks and just looking like the coolest mother-shut your mouth- to ever walk the dystopian streets. Get this man an action vehicle, stat! A friend suggested Nightwing and I’ve never seen a more perfect casting.

Everyone is dialed up to 1000 and while everyone has a different assignment, they all see to understand what that assignment was. It’s Havana Rose Lui that farms the most and feels the most dialed in, making a meal of her very strange, borderline incestuous (yes, really) role. She has the best line readings in Her Private Hell, one in particular that made me laugh out loud in my completely empty theater: “What the fuck is a normal murder?” I’d say this would make sense in context, but I’m not sure I can make that statement confidently. Legendary composer Pino Donaggio’s vibrantly chaotic score layers every shot with significance even when nothing is actually happening on screen. It’s a beautiful score that feels out of place in Her Private Hell but at the same a perfect fit for something so weird.

Final Thoughts

Her Private Hell is a personal experiment first, an attempt at a movie second. Refn is actually really good at making movies, they’re just too distant to be embraced without some work on the part of the viewer. His style is an acquired taste and often off-putting to most, but for those who aren’t deterred by the common ways of understanding cinema, they are often treated to something strange but special. I don’t entirely know what to make of Her Private Hell. On the one hand, I’m extremely frustrated by it and my inability to make any sense out of what this is supposed to be as a film. But on the other hand, the immaculate vibes are undeniable, and letting go of traditional understanding to interpret an arthouse homage of personal experience and experimental framing leads to a surprising amount of enjoyment.

Everything about Her Private Hell works best when you let go. And maybe that’s what it all means. Maybe its a reflective exploration of unexplainable consciousness, an attempt to make sense of an experience very few have lived to tell their tale. Maybe the style really is the story, left to be interpreted and dissected for years to come, each new idea leading to a new rabbit hole with no consensus among cinephiles. Or maybe Her Private Hell means nothing at all. Just the musings of a very weird guy obsessed with color and exploited youth through violence and the over sexualization of women through his male gaze. There is no right answer, and that’s what makes Her Private Hell the worst movie you’ve ever seen or the greatest wtf experience you’ll ever have in a theater.

No matter where you land on Her Private Hell, you’re right. And that’s a pretty rare thing in cinema and one I can’t dismiss outright. I’ll say I’m glad I saw it but never want to see it again and admit that the jury is still out on the latter. Her Private Hell was at times grating and exhaustive but at others enthralling and kind of rocked in the end. Even after all these words, I still don’t know what to do with something like this.

In other words, there’s a new Nicholas Winding Refn that’s supposed to be nuts.

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