Her Private Hell: As Intended, Nicholas Winding Refn Leaves Me Confused and Winded
By Thom Ernst
Rating: C+
If people were to ask—and they haven’t yet—what I think of the works of director Nicolas Winding Refn, I would answer, Drive, and most films before it, are wonderful.
Everything since? Well, everything about Refn seems poised and ready to disorient. Even his name. Nicholas Winding Refn. It begins so reassuringly phonetic, then ends with Refn, as though the last four letters exist solely to make sure nobody leaves entirely comfortable. Cultural significance aside, I remain convinced he did that on purpose.
Sophie Thatcher looks just as confused as us.
I’ve come across enough interviews with and about Refn to form the impression of a man who would make an exhausting dinner guest and someone I wouldn’t want to be stuck with for too long in an elevator.
But he’s not a man without talent. You may question it, but Refn has talent, even if it’s a talent limited to a handful of Nicholas Winding Refn acolytes who can recognize it.
And that would be the case with his latest film, Her Private Hell, a film so similar in stylized dialogue, precise set design and stilted staging to his previous film, The Neon Demon, that it feels like an absurd, disjointed sequel. It isn’t. Although beauty, fashion, arrogance and unexpected violence are the hallmarks of both films.
The one shares some DNA links with the previously titled 1968 film Her Private Hell, an unremarkable story about the exploitive nature of the modelling industry. Both films leave no uncertainty that those who exploit beauty can be manipulative, arrogant, self-serving, and toxic.
There is a story here drenched in a shower of pastel sheens and superb lighting. But why should I attempt to unravel a plot and muddle it up even further for you? Stripped of allegory, affectation, and earnestness, the story can be genuinely captivating, and Refn has a knack for reeling audiences back in just as they’ve begun to drift away. Whether there’s a coherent meaning beneath its maze of metaphors is a question each viewer will have to invent—I mean, answer—for themselves.
So, for the sake of argument, let’s assume there is no mysterious fog enveloping the city and no science-fiction dystopian element. There is, and it plays its part, but it’s one layer of the film I just can’t be bothered to pursue right now. The important thing is that an American G.I.. (Charles Melton, whose matinee-idol looks outrank even the meticulously staged scenery) is searching for his daughter in what looks to be Hong Kong, but it could be Hell with a post-war Blade Runner aesthetic.
Meanwhile, an actress suffering from fame-is-pain syndrome (Sophie Thatcher), who stars alongside her same-aged stepmother (Havana Rose Liu), is searching for her father who may not be the very famous, very charismatic, very dangerous Johnny Thunders (Dougray Scott). The latter, by the way, has no apparent connection to the late, very famous and very dangerous punk rocker of the same name.
Other characters walk into the story as if passing through from a David Lynch film on their way to a Gaspar Noé movie—and even if it doesn’t always work, it’s at always nice to have them drop by.
It seems Refn is primarily interested in making a film that he is interested in making, and really doesn’t care a whole lot if the audience doesn’t follow. He does have fun with some unexpected martial art fight sequences, some clever comic-book slashes of violence and one or two meltdowns crazier than a Norma Desmond outtake, But it’s never enough to make the film feel like something with which the audience is welcome to play along.
Her Private Hell is directed by Nicholas Winding Refn and stars Sophie Thatcher, Charles Melton, Dougray Scott. Her Private Hell opens in select theatres July 24, 2026.