Just got out of Her Private Hell, and honestly, I don’t know what Nicolas Winding Refn was trying to accomplish here.
For context, I love Drive. It’s one of my favorite modern crime thrillers. I can even appreciate Only God Forgives. It’s strange, brutally violent, and definitely not for everyone, but it has an atmosphere, an incredible soundtrack, and enough of a story to keep me invested.
Her Private Hell is the complete opposite.
This is, without question, the worst movie I’ve seen this year.
I’ve seen 41 movies in theaters this year, and I genuinely thought Scream 7 was going to finish the year at the bottom of my rankings. Somehow, Her Private Hell managed to go even lower.
The biggest problem is that the movie mistakes confusion for depth.
I’m not someone who needs every movie to explain itself. I enjoy films that leave room for interpretation. But there’s a difference between ambiguity and refusing to give your audience anything to hold onto. Her Private Hell asks question after question without ever laying the groundwork for why any of it matters.
We’re thrown into this futuristic dystopian world centered around the massive Tauro Tower, a structure that stretches beyond the clouds. There are actors making a movie inside the movie, mysterious shapeshifting figures, folklore about fox women, a Leather Man hunting people, family trauma, and endless symbolism. Instead of building on those ideas, the film just keeps piling on new ones.
It never earns your investment.
By the time another surreal scene rolled around, I wasn’t asking, “What does this mean?” I was asking, “Why should I care?”
Visually, this is Nicolas Winding Refn doing everything you’ve come to expect: neon lighting, long silent stretches, hyper-violence, uncomfortable sexuality, and dreamlike imagery. The problem is that it feels like he’s become a parody of himself. Every trademark is dialed up to eleven, but none of it serves a compelling story.
All the neon lights in the world can’t fix a movie that has nothing underneath them.
Charles Melton’s Private K was probably the character I found most interesting. At times, his quiet mannerisms reminded me of Ryan Gosling’s Driver, right down to the restrained body language and subtle gestures. Unfortunately, the script never gives him enough to become more than another symbol wandering through Refn’s nightmare.
Sophie Thatcher is clearly committed, and Havana Rose Liu deserves better than the material she’s given. Christine Forsyth’s Hunter never worked for me, although it’s hard to tell where the performance ends and Refn’s detached direction begins. Every character feels emotionally distant, making it difficult to connect with anyone on screen.
Even the music disappointed me. One of the things I love most about Drive and even Only God Forgives is how memorable their soundtracks are. Here, the score never elevated the experience the way I’ve come to expect from a Refn film.
The most telling part of my screening wasn’t even on the screen.
Seven people were in the theater when the movie started.
By the time the credits rolled, only three people remained—including me and my girlfriend.
Normally, I’d roll my eyes at people walking out of a movie. This time, I understood it.
I kept checking my watch, hoping there would be one scene that tied everything together or gave me a reason to rethink what I’d just watched. It never came.
I can appreciate some of the cinematography. There are individual shots that look gorgeous. But beautiful images alone don’t make a great movie. If anything, Her Private Hell proves that style without substance eventually becomes exhausting.
I know Refn has a devoted fanbase, and I’m sure there will be people who argue that the film’s symbolism and themes simply require multiple viewings. That’s fine. But I don’t think the problem here is media literacy. The problem is storytelling. A film can be mysterious without alienating its audience. It can be symbolic while still creating emotional investment.
Her Private Hell never finds that balance.
Instead, it spends nearly two hours throwing striking images at the screen without giving them enough narrative weight to matter.
For me, this wasn’t an intriguing puzzle.
It was just a mess.
Her Private Hell = 40/100
