Critic Reviews

Similar to Inland Empire, Refn’s film whirlwinds its way to an alternately funny and frightening confrontation with an evil incarnate that, once vanquished, allows for a mystical connection of lonely souls, a divine purge of long-held trauma, and an ambiguous way forward for those who remain.

Her Private Hell is an acquired taste, but once you have it it becomes impossible to get rid of. Beautifully composed – Jane Marshall Whittaker's costumes and Louise Bruun's makeup are Oscar-worthy – with a heady story, this is a movie that grips you with its incomprehensibility. It's a movie worth deconstructing, loving, and remembering.

More than the bursts of visceral violence, it’s Refn’s vibrant command of visuals that proves most exhilarating. Even if there was less plot, the consistently dark beauty of the film would be enough to carry it forward.

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

As Her Private Hell unloads on audiences, it's Refn at his most intoxicating and elusive; one size fits Refn, and he doesn't care if you're along for the ride or gone in sixty seconds.

Like David Lynch, Refn risks self-parody to transport us from life’s sorrows through beautiful visions. If you’re lucky, its flaws won’t spoil the movie’s capacity to take you away.

Even though Her Private Hell doesn't connect as hard as some of Refn's prior films, it has a richness which befits the last decade of his work, both in "The Neon Demon" and his streaming series. To be sure, the man's asking a lot of audiences, and seems to be willfully embracing polarizing opinions. Yet he isn't antagonizing so much as challenging.

Thanks in major part to the lush, romantic, strings-laden musical score by Pino Donaggio (also a favorite of Mr. De Palma) and the madly expressive carnival swirl of spooky images captured by cinematographer Magnus Nordenhof Jønck, the movie has much the same mystique as the more abstract works of David Lynch. When you burrow this deep into the subconscious, logic is beside the point.

Think of it as a sensual and sinister reverie of daddy issues, serial killers, and set and costume design, and prepare to be equally dazzled and driven mad.

Whether or not the movie means anything at all beyond its surface pleasures and obviously Freudian subject matter is elusive, and it can feel like an alienating and nihilistic experience. But like every Refn movie, it is undeniably profound, deeply beautiful and perhaps deceptively deep, even as he’s playing dumb.