Nicolas Winding Refn’s latest film, Her Private Hell, is the kind of movie that dares you to either love it or loathe it—there’s no middle ground. Personally, I think that’s exactly where Refn wants us to be. This isn’t a filmmaker who plays it safe, and Her Private Hell is no exception. It’s a glossy, surreal fairy tale that feels like a dream you can’t quite shake, even if you’re not entirely sure what it means. What makes this particularly fascinating is how Refn blends genres—giallo, melodrama, noir—into a stew that’s both familiar and utterly alien. It’s like he’s taken the DNA of David Lynch, Brian De Palma, and Alejandro Jodorowsky, thrown it into a blender, and served it up with a side of haute couture.
One thing that immediately stands out is the film’s visual style. Magnus Nordenhof Jønck’s cinematography is nothing short of breathtaking. The cityscapes feel like Blade Runner reimagined by a fashion photographer, and the sequences with Sophie Thatcher’s character, Elle, are styled like a high-end perfume ad. What many people don’t realize is that this pristine aesthetic isn’t just eye candy—it’s a deliberate contrast to the film’s lurid, psychodramatic underbelly. Refn’s not just making a movie; he’s crafting a sensory experience that forces you to question what’s real and what’s illusion.
Speaking of Sophie Thatcher, her performance is the anchor that keeps Her Private Hell from drifting into complete abstraction. Elle is a character who shifts from ingenue to femme fatale to something altogether unhinged, and Thatcher pulls it off with remarkable finesse. From my perspective, this is a breakout role for her—she’s not just acting; she’s embodying the film’s thematic chaos. What this really suggests is that Refn trusts his actors to carry the weight of his ambiguity, and Thatcher rises to the challenge.
But let’s talk about the story—or rather, the lack thereof. Her Private Hell is a narrative maze, with threads involving a killer called The Leather Man, a space-age comic book film, and a soldier in 1950s Japan. If you take a step back and think about it, the plot is almost secondary to the mood and imagery. Refn’s not telling a story so much as he’s creating a vibe. This raises a deeper question: Is cinema about coherence, or is it about feeling? Refn seems to argue for the latter, and I can’t help but admire his audacity.
What’s most intriguing, though, is how Refn positions himself as a filmmaker. He’s not Tarantino, not Von Trier, not a satirist—he’s something else entirely. Her Private Hell feels like a manifesto of sorts, a declaration that he doesn’t need to fit into any box. A detail that I find especially interesting is how he embraces polarizing reactions. The un-subtitled Japanese dialogue, the elliptical storytelling, the deliberate ambiguity—it’s all a middle finger to conventional expectations. If you’re the kind of viewer who needs everything spelled out, this film will frustrate you. But if you’re willing to lean into the confusion, it might just captivate you.
In my opinion, Her Private Hell is a film that demands multiple viewings. The first time, you’re too busy trying to figure out what’s happening to feel anything. But on a rewatch, the emotional undercurrents start to surface. It’s a movie that rewards patience and openness, which is a rare thing in today’s binge-watching culture. What this really suggests is that Refn is less interested in giving us answers than he is in sparking conversations.
Ultimately, Her Private Hell is a puzzle you either reject or embrace. It’s not perfect—the pacing can be glacial, and the plot threads don’t always cohere. But that’s kind of the point. Refn’s not trying to make a seamless masterpiece; he’s trying to create something that lingers, something that haunts you long after the credits roll. Personally, I think he’s succeeded. Whether you love it or hate it, Her Private Hell is a film that refuses to be forgotten. And in a world of forgettable blockbusters, that’s a hell of an achievement.
