Her Private Hell

Her Private Hell resists interpretation, like so many of Refn’s recent films, but executes a slow dervish swirl of hypnotic strangeness.

It’s a mean, nasty neo-giallo, filled with the genre’s standards: gorgeously odd visuals, colorful lighting, disparate performance qualities, questionable morals, and brutal moments of sudden violence. To those who are prepared for it and willing to go hand in hand with Refn on his colorful, nonsensical journey, it’s an adventure to be remembered, like a nightmare that leaves an indelible mark on the psyche.

To be sure, there are moments when one can be amused by the shameless showiness of Refn’s pretentious design. But like that mist enveloping the city, Her Private Hell’s charms dissipate fairly quickly.

It’s all fun in the heat of the moment – or more often the chill of it – and the physically constructed city itself is a wonder. But we already know that Refn can do this stuff in his sleep. As the credits roll, you may be left wondering: what else?

After disappearing into television for the past decade, Nicolas Winding Refn once again rears into the cinema with Her Private Hell, which unfortunately is an insufferable, nonsensical exercise suggesting his narrative coffers remain empty.

Her Private Hell is a disaster, but even that’s part of its hipster factor. The film practically announces that it’s too cool to be coherent.

Every time you think the film might finally actually step into the horror arena, it takes a step back and instead indulges in empty titillation. This film is for people who already love Refn's work and are willing to look past any faults to simply rejoice in his return ten years after Neon Demon. But after walking out of Her Private Hell, the movie has me thinking that perhaps Refn should have stayed dormant another 10 years if this is the final product.