Don't Worry Darling

In Don’t Worry Darling, we find ourselves in the idyllic, isolated 1950s community of Victory, where Alice (Florence Pugh) and her Brit husband Jack (Harry Styles) are one of the reigning glam couples. Every morning, the men journey into the desert en masse to partake in something known as “The Victory Project” while their wives stay home to cook, clean, and otherwise idle away the day. We don’t know much about the Victory Project, other than it’s top secret and its work is taking place at the behest of Frank (Chris Pine), the town’s Svengali-like overlord. Before long, cracks start to appear in the facade of Alice’s picture-perfect existence - is she starting to mentally unravel, or is something more sinister afoot?    

Don’t Worry Darling arrives cresting on a wave of toxic publicity, centered around a supposed rift between star Pugh and director Olivia Wilde. Three years ago, Wilde pivoted impressively from acting to filmmaking with the whip-sharp teen comedy Booksmart and she’s ratcheted up the ambition appreciably for her sophomore feature. Wilde’s technical and visual instincts are undeniably keen… and she did well in enlisting cinematographer Matthew Libatique (a regular collaborator of Darren Aronofsky), who lenses the world of Victory in all of its Atomic Age splendor. But the script is messy, and Wilde struggles to get a handle on her vague feminist messaging. The second act in particular feels almost like an hour-long version of the trailer, striking the same cryptic notes while idling dramatically in first gear… not unlike a Twilight Zone episode that’s been stretched out of shape in an effort to make it feature length.  

Pugh is not particularly well-served by the movie, but such is her talent, her screen presence, and her meteoric star quality that she emerges from the trenches virtually unscathed. Her stardom is bulletproof. There may not be another actress under the age of 30 who’s more compulsively watchable at the moment. Pop star Styles holds his own - marginally - but one can’t help but wonder how the film might have played with a lead actor blessed with more of an edge - such as original casting choice Shia LaBeouf (who was either fired or departed of his own accord, depending on who you believe). At  least Pine is empowered to put his sly, fox-like charms to a more sinister use than we’re accustomed to… but his character quickly frustrates; he’s never more than a cipher, an ominous construct - as murky as the world he inhabits.​

There’s no denying that the film is, well… if not channeling, then at least grazing the edges of the cultural climate. Its climactic revelations reflect - indirectly - the rise of everything from incel ideology to the pervasive influence of QAnon. But Wilde never seems entirely sure what she’s trying to say here. The movie evokes the paranoia thrillers of the Cold War era, but in its own regressive fashion it’s really just a high-gloss update of The Stepford Wives. And much like Alice’s world, it’s pretty to look at, but once you peer into its illusory depths, there’s not that much beneath the surface.