Nicolas Winding Refn’s return to the big screen delivers vibes, but is all too ethereal to make a real mark
Nicolas Winding Refn returns to the big screen after a decade away with Her Private Hell, a film that strains toward something ethereal. Blending operatic melodrama, fantasy, science fiction, noir, and Giallo influences, it feels unmistakably Refn. Yet for all its stylistic ambition, it lacks the grounded emotional punch that has made much of his previous work so compelling.
Sophie Thatcher stars as Elle, an emerging starlet who takes aspiring actress Hunter (Kristine Froseth) under her wing after casting her in a new science fiction film. Hoping to foster a relationship that extends beyond professional collaboration, Elle invites Hunter into her world, plunging her into the strange dynamics of her family. Presiding over the household is Dominique (Havana Rose Liu), once Elle’s friend and now her stepmother, while Elle’s father Johnny Thunder (Dougray Scott) looms as a brooding and sleazy presence. When Johnny leaves on an overseas business trip, the remaining trio begin navigating their uneasy new dynamic. One evening, they share the urban legend of the Leatherman, a nightmarish figure who emerges from the mist that frequently engulfs the city and brutally murders women who cross his path. As the love-hate relationship between Elle and Dominique intensifies, the Leatherman’s presence begins to seep back into the city.
On the surface, the film feels like a companion piece to Only God Forgives, flipping that film’s toxic parent-child dynamic from mother and son to daughter and father. Broadly, the film explores the destructive influence of men and the damage they leave in their wake. Johnny is not simply a lecherous patriarch, his decision to marry Elle’s former friend represents a profound violation of personal boundaries, creating a dysfunctional triangle defined by both longing and antagonism. This thematic exploration extends beyond the central trio through Private Kay (Charles Melton), a soldier searching for a daughter lost to the Leatherman’s mist-shrouded domain. Kay functions as a counterpart to Johnny, embodying the noble, wounded antihero that frequently populates Refn’s films. While Johnny’s fatherhood manifests through Elle as corruption and possession, Kay’s is a more desperate and selfless pursuit, as he cuts violently through the city’s underbelly in hopes of seeing his daughter again.
The problem is that the film never finds a true narrative anchor. Refn, so focused on feel and craft leaves the substantive parts of the film frustratingly underdeveloped. His movies have always been driven by style, but paired with something deeper simmering beneath the surface. Here, the visual flourishes remain, but the emotional and narrative weight feels oddly absent. As a result, Her Private Hell becomes a mood-heavy, vapid experience whose success largely depends on one’s tolerance for style taking precedence over substance. Tonally, the film often feels curiously blasé about its own melodrama. Moments of emotional intensity frequently collide with absurdist dialogue and interactions that leave you perplexed, only for another character to seemingly acknowledge the absurdity moments later. Your take on the performances will derive from your take on overall film, being as they are harmoniously attuned to Refn’s vibes, but Thatcher continues to make her mark as a go to punk element in film, while Rose Liu and Melson stand out with their seductive and brooding contributions respectively.
Visually, Her Private Hell represents a notable departure for Refn. This is perhaps the first of his films to fully embrace soundstages and artificial sets rather than grounding itself in recognizable real-world locations. The approach complements the film’s fantasy-infused atmosphere, creating a city that feels less like a physical place and more like a liminal space suspended between reality and the afterlife. Yet this aesthetic choice comes at a cost. The tangible, visceral quality that gave films like Drive and Only God Forgives much of their impact is diminished here. The city becomes a fleeting construct, beautiful to look at but difficult to truly inhabit.
A major contributor to the film’s dreamlike atmosphere is the score from legendary Italian composer Pino Donaggio, coaxed out of retirement once more. Donaggio’s music is arguably the film’s greatest asset, embracing its Giallo influences with enthusiasm while amplifying the sweeping melodrama and fantastical excesses that define the project. The score frequently achieves the emotional highs that the narrative itself struggles to reach.
Viewed in the context of Refn’s career, Her Private Hell feels particularly personal. During a post-screening Q&A, the director reflected on undergoing heart surgery several years ago, explaining that afterward he felt compelled to “make everything in one” and embrace “constant change.” That impulse is evident throughout the film. It is perhaps Refn’s purest expression of cinema as mood and sensation, unconcerned with convention or traditional storytelling. Ironically, though, while the film superficially screams Refn, it often feels more indebted to other filmmakers than to the director’s own body of work. Like its mist-covered city and half-real characters, it frequently resembles the ghost of another movie, a collection of influences that never quite cohere into something fully realized and detract from the film’s own identity.
Her Private Hell is an operatic, fetish-tinged tragedy, a fever dream bathed in neon pinks and blues, enveloped by shadows and mist. Yet while Refn succeeds in crafting a striking atmosphere, the emotions beneath it remain frustratingly elusive. In seeking the ethereal, he loses the tangible. The result is a film adrift in its own ambitions, weighed down by narrative drift and hollow thematic exploration. There are certainly vibes to be found here, but they prove too fleeting to linger after the credits roll.
Her Private Hell stalks theaters from July 24th
