In a 2013 interview with The Irish Times, the Danish filmmaker Nicolas Winding Refn was asked if he viewed himself as a pornographer.
“Yes,” he replied, “it’s all fetish for me. I make films about the things that arouse me at different times.” Some of those things have so far included coolly alluring women, predatory men, neon lighting and hacked-off body parts, all of which are resurrected for “Her Private Hell,” his first theatrical feature since “The Neon Demon” in 2016. What they add up to here is a jamboree of genres — horror, murder mystery, psychodrama — in service to a plot (by Refn and Esti Giordani) so laughable and performances so stylized that it’s impossible to appreciate the movie as anything other than an oversaturated, surreal spoof. Perhaps of Refn himself.
Only he knows for sure, but while we ponder, we have Pino Donaggio’s lush, swooning score to hold our attention. (We surely need something, as for all Refn’s pulpy past indulgences, he has never been this mannered or this phlegmatic.) That score, pervasive and hypnotic, is the movie’s lifeline and the anchor that prevents it from spinning completely off its axis. The music is also a signpost — via Donaggio’s memorable collaborations with Dario Argento and Brian De Palma — to Refn’s most obvious influences. Psychosexual themes propelled by lurid violence are a recurring turn-on, and “Her Private Hell” is no exception.
Set in a foggy, futuristic city (accurately described in the press notes as a “pulsating dreamscape”), the film fixates on Elle (Sophie Thatcher), a young starlet shooting cheesy sci-fi in a luxurious hotel suite. Elle can scarcely engage with her prancing, tinfoil-bedecked co-stars, so distracted is she by family drama. Her onetime best friend, Dominique (Havana Rose Liu), is now married to Elle’s father, the movie magnate Johnny Thunders (Dougray Scott). Considering the sexual tension ricocheting among them, it’s hard to determine who is more jealous of whom.
Before we can decide, we’re in post-World War II Tokyo, where an American G.I. named Private Kay (Charles Melton) is frantically hunting for the daughter he believes has been spirited off to Hell. When not battling a plus-size assailant — in a children’s clothing store, of all places — Kay stares catatonically at the camera, a matinee idol in military drag. Elsewhere, a monster known as the Leatherman is also prowling for daughters, sneaking up behind them and ripping them in two with hands encased in diamond-encrusted gloves. Elle may be in danger, but she should be more concerned about a father who lights matches on his teeth and a stepmom who barks. Characters here don’t converse so much as spout crackpot non sequiturs (“I am a victim of the mist”), and how any of them keeps a straight face is the movie’s real mystery. The artificiality and affectation are off the charts.
Baffling and at times perversely beautiful, “Her Private Hell” revisits some of the obsessions — murdered daughters, amputation, problematic parenting — of Refn’s wildly superior 2013 revenge tale, “Only God Forgives.” A dazzlingly gifted filmmaker, Refn will always have a place in my heart for his unwavering commitment to his scarlet-soaked visions, critics and audiences be damned. Now, though, he may simply be repeating himself.
“Making a movie is like going to war,” Johnny informs Elle. Perhaps even with yourself.
Her Private Hell Rated R for a monster in the mist, drugs in the nose and a dagger in the eye. Running time: 1 hour 49 minutes. In theaters.
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