Honey Don't!

 

Director Ethan Coen

Ethan Coen and spouse Tricia Cooke

HONEY DON’T!                   C                                                                                              USA  Great Britain  (89 mi)  2025  ‘Scope  d: Ethan Coen and Tricia Cooke (uncredited)

What the world needs now is more lesbian-based private eye thrillers, as the opening sequence is right out of the exploitation evil pleasures of Russ Meyer and the lurid Tura Satana in FASTER, PUSSYCAT! KILL! KILL! (1965), where busty working-class women exact revenge with bats and knives, wreaking havoc with their ability to titillate while also providing loads of subversive fun.  Like that film, this should be so much more of a blast than it is, coming from a filmmaker with such an established reputation, where this is the second installment of Ethan Coen and his openly queer wife Tricia Cooke’s planned lesbian B-movie trilogy, with the conclusive third already entitled GO, BEAVERS!, all written together while she edits the films, following the curious yet less than scintillating Drive-Away Dolls (2024), though not as autobiographical, less personal, and not as much trashy fun.  This feels even more laid back and casual, yet much darker in tone with excessively cruel violence, more of a reimagining of the hardboiled detective genre through a lesbian lens, becoming a deliberately sunny, escapist neo-noir thriller.  If Drive-Away Dolls was the lesbian answer to the road trip, this injects the lesbian subculture to the traditionally male detective genre, skewering the hypocrisy of Christian megachurches and the nefarious activities in small town America, yet it already feels out of time, like we’ve somehow missed out on what drew this couple into making this picture, as the fun is already gone.  It shouldn’t be that contentiously controversial, as after all, the very first cinematic kiss was between two women, 1882 - The Kiss - Eadweard Muybridge YouTube (34 seconds).  In the opening credits, the names are etched into faded signs on dilapidated buildings and commercial establishments, where peeling paint hints at faded dreams, inspired apparently by John Huston’s FAT CITY (1972).  While there’s still some subversive fun to be had, most of it falls flat, leaving very little excitement about the final installment.  Premiering out of competition at the Cannes Film Festival in a midnight screening, where it was largely panned, you wonder why a film like this would even get an invite, as there’s little to actually like about this film.  Nonetheless, it has the Coen name, makers of some of the best independent films produced in America since the 1980’s, but the infamous brothers broke up as a collaborating team in 2018 and have been on their own ever since, making their own separate films, though expected to reunite at some point in the future with an anticipated horror film.  It would be hard to imagine one of the Dardennes brothers making a film on their own, as these are two of the best brothers duo in cinema history, hugely influential, even going as far back as the Lumière Brothers.  While actually shot in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the film is set in the Central Valley of Bakersfield, California, of all places, a farm town with plenty of wide open spaces, not exactly known for their cultural notoriety, but the desert is never far away, and everyone here seems to be living on the edge of oblivion and total obscurity.  The opening says it all, easily the best sequence in the entire film, never living up to what it promises, establishing the tone for a darkly humorous exploitation movie as a badass beautiful woman (Lera Abova) does her best Uma Thurman Pulp Fiction imitation in shades, pulling up to the site of a car crash in her Vespa scooter wearing a leopard-print outfit with an exposed bra, as she walks down a steep slope to an upside down car with a dead woman inside, prying the distinctly recognizable ring off her finger before she wanders off to a nearby stream to bathe naked.  Cut to a distinctive copycat cover version of the hugely popular Eric Burdon and the Animals hit song from 1965, We Gotta Get Out of This Place YouTube (3:15).  Now that’s an opening statement.    

Unfortunately, that mysterious woman who defiantly commands the screen is barely seen again, as it’s not really about her.  It’s about the dead girl lying at the bottom of a gulch.  Arriving on the scene to investigate is the friendly town cop, homicide detective Marty Metakawich (Charlie Day), who greets the arrival of small-town private investigator Honey O’Donahue (Margaret Qualley) with a smile, both wondering what the other is doing there, as it’s supposedly an accident, but they’re investigating it as a homicide.  Qualley, who starred in the Claire Denis film Stars at Noon (2022) and the earlier installment of Drive-Away Dolls, may be the recurring figure throughout the trilogy, providing a female version of a detached 1940’s film noir detective like Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe updated to the modern day era.  A chic dresser in heels, always making quick witted, wise ass remarks (when asked if she drinks, she replies, “Heavily.  It’s a point of pride.”), she exudes a sexy swagger with what sounds like a Texas accent, a woman you don’t want to mess with, as she can dish it out with the best of them, easily having her way with the bad boys who get a tad aggressive, while picking up loose and available women in bars afterwards.  Driving a vintage turquoise 1972 Chevrolet Chevelle SS 454 Convertible 4-Speed, just like guys in earlier 50’s movies, her car makes a statement, while still using an old-school rolodex for contact information instead of some new-age gadgetry, she remains emotionally guarded, yet possesses a mysterious allure.  Marty has a soft spot for her and attempts a friendly date, but she just laughs off the offer, reminding him “I like women.”  Befuddled by the thought that could even be possible, refusing the accept the obvious, Marty defies the odds and keeps trying, as it is a small town after all, but she keeps telling him the same thing, becoming a running gag throughout the picture.  Without sharing what drew her to the scene of the crime, the dead driver is Mia Novotny, a prospective client who called Honey earlier that same day, but she was killed before they could meet, where the suspicious circumstances surrounding her death expose a wider web of corruption.  Perhaps the unseemliest aspect of the film is its depiction of a corrupt and sleazy church that is basically a front for its behind-the-scenes drug trafficking operations.  Mia was a member of the Four-Way Temple led by the lecherous Reverend Drew Devlin (Chris Evans), who is a real sleazeball (Captain America, no less), a despicable but darkly humorous pastor preaching “active submission,” where we see raunchy sex scenes in the Reverend’s private chambers, taking full advantage of young women members of his flock, often with multiple partners, perhaps an ironic reference to the name of the church, which he runs like a cult, where it’s all about the supreme leader in charge.  The nastiness of how they conduct their business appears to be shockingly connected to Mia’s death, as the ring pulled off her finger had the insignia of the church, and we see how easily Devlin is willing to eliminate anyone who might be deemed a threat to his operations.  This is where the film really bogs down in over-predictability, as they are such an easy target, accumulating more and more corpses without a hint of suspense or tension, using dimwitted stereotypes that only drag this film down.  When Honey’s niece Corinne (Talia Ryder from Eliza Hittman’s painfully underseen 2020 Top Ten List #5 Never Rarely Sometimes Always) returns home battered and bruised, she turns to Honey, fearing her overly judgmental mother would only blame her for even going out with such an abusive local redneck, so Honey pays him a call in his trailer, which turns into an ugly and brutally violent affair, as she turns his aggression back on him, having the last word, even planting a rather humorous bumper sticker over his MAGA license plate that reads “I have a vagina and I vote,” one of the few moments that got a few snickers from the audience. 

In the course of her investigation, Honey runs into MG Falcone (Aubrey Plaza), a policewoman who works in the evidence room, quickly meeting her at a bar frequented by police afterwards, discovering she’s a like-minded butch queer woman, where their flirtatiousness is one for the ages, with MG brazenly fingering her in public, commenting, “I love first date stuff.”  Taking their business back to Honey’s place, the lesbian sex is relatively tame, where the mildly amusing kicker is the following morning Honey is seen casually washing an array of sex toys in her kitchen sink with the look of a domestic housewife.  That’s something we don’t typically see.  There’s so little sex in movies today, what little we do see is perhaps a reflection of the regressively backwards culture that is becoming more puritanical, so even a glimpse is a throwback to more liberal times when sex was commonplace.  MG is friendly enough, but hides a dark and mysterious side, like many of the characters in this film.  Honey questions Devlin, as murder and criminal activity seems to lead to his door, quickly establishing a clever repartee, as Devlin acknowledges, “You’re fascinating,” with Honey quipping, “And you haven’t even seen the riddle tattooed on my ass.”  He predictably defends using his position to prey on vulnerable young women, suggesting we’re all a little lost in need of some spiritual guidance, and unlike other churches that only deal with saving souls, his guidance encompasses the total package.  When Corrine goes missing, Honey returns to the church, only to find it locked, but she hears a gunshot inside, with a woman on a scooter seen fleeing from the scene.  That’s the last we see of the crooked pastor, who apparently got his comeuppance by being too big for his britches.  Sex and violence are intertwined in this movie, with a series of strange deaths tied to this mysterious church, but the police are completely baffled and fail to make the connection, as Marty remains unconvinced there is a reason to search the Temple.  Audiences have a behind-the-scenes window into their criminal and sexual depravity, but the question is where does it all lead?  The mystery woman appears to have ended any speculation on where this is heading.  Having no other leads, Honey visits MG at her home, and what appears to be innocent banter suddenly turns ugly, with MG growing increasingly paranoid and unstable, turning into a ferocious, knockdown battle between two women, arguably the catfight men seem to fantasize about, as we suddenly learn the grotesque truth behind her repressive family secrets, where MG has no intention of letting Honey just walk out of there.  But Honey is no patsy, capable of getting down and dirty, which she needs to do in order to survive.  In the end, we learn the mystery woman on a scooter is named Chėre, speaks with a French accent, where it might be better to construct an entire film around her character.  Stay tuned.  It’s all a little peculiar, as outside of Honey, who is uniquely compelling, none of the other characters have any depth or are even remotely developed, remaining cardboard caricatures, which makes it difficult to relate with this movie, as it feels so lazily written and realized.  A better version of what this film may have been attempting to accomplish is Rose Glass’s Love Lies Bleeding (2024), which similarly flaunts its comic B-movie neo-noir mentality from a lesbian perspective, and before that was the Wachowski’s Bound (1996).  Perhaps the biggest surprise is the generic female-centric soundtrack, sounding amateurish rather than ironic, including a few songs sung by Qualley, with the titular song, a 1956 Carl Perkins rockabilly classic, which probably should have been the movie theme song, only heard over the end credits, and even then it’s an inept cover version compared to the original.  While they may not have had money for musical rights, these are some really poor choices.  Overall, it’s a lame experience, with no real standout jokes or scenes, except the opening sequence, where the normally reliable Coen humor just falls flat, making this a real slog to sit through.  Films feel more generic nowadays, and this may be a classic example, as a generally reliable creative team seems to have fumbled the ball and simply run out of ideas and inspiration.  There’s a lackadaisical emptiness here that feels like a bad parody gone wrong, making it hard to imagine there will be another.  

The Nanny (La Balia)

Director Marco Bellocchio

THE NANNY (La Balia)       B+                                                                                                 Italy  (106 mi)  1999  d: Marco Bellocchio

A film that bears some similarities to French director Antoine Santana’s own adaptation, A SONG OF INNOCENCE (2005), starring Isild Le Besco as the nanny, though Santana takes full writing credit for his film, even though there are exact copy cat shots taken directly from this earlier film.  Santana’s is a much more subversive adaptation, as it’s presented in the horror genre as class warfare against a harsh and unyielding employer, leading to a completely different and actually more satisfying ending.  Bellocchio’s is a lyrical, more novelesque adaptation, based on the novella by Luigi Pirandello, his first collaboration with screenwriter Daniela Ceselli, which merits attention due to its strict attention to period detail, a historical costume drama using gas street lamps and horse driven carriages reserved only for the rich.  Set in Rome during the end of the late 19th century, the country is undergoing political upheaval, where a fascist militia is brought in to protect the upper class by wiping out the peasant uprising, expressed through banners and red flag waving Communist demonstrations on the street.  In this capacity we meet a sympathetic Professor Mori (Fabrizio Bentivoglio), a neuropsychiatrist who treats exclusively female mental health patients at a local hospital, some of whom are suicidal, with no evidence that his treatment plans actually work, but he seems to receive a steady stream of political victims, announcing they need follow up care, keeping them at the hospital instead of allowing them to be arrested and hoisted off to jail.  His wife, Vittoria, played by Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi, usually seen in French films but seen here early in her career in Italian, is suffering from postpartum depression, a condition little was known about at the time, with no maternal feelings, along with an intense fear of intimacy with the newborn, who refuses her milk, requiring the breast feeding services of a wet nurse, leaving her emotionally devastated by the rejection, showing a range of conflicting emotions, like disgust, helplessness, hope, and also jealousy at the ease with which someone else nourishes her child.  While examining the subject of motherhood, this is essentially a story of human exploitation, juxtaposing the personal conflicts of the characters with the class conflict looming in the background, exposing the cultural divide between men and women, or wealth and poverty, giving the film an operatic feel, continuing an underlying Bellocchio theme that madness is the ultimate form of rebellion, as if emanating out of Marat/Sade.     

Santana also steals the most memorable image in the film, where twenty or so nursing mothers are lined up, each unclad from the waist up so the prospective employer can examine them as if choosing a woman at a bordello.  Dr. Mori chooses Annetta (Maya Sansa), who he may have seen in a railway station earlier in the film amongst handcuffed subversives about to be deported, where she left an unforgettable impression.  Against all advice, as her husband is a teacher jailed for subversion, a political activist demanding “freedom,” of all things, he chooses her anyway, perhaps mesmerized by her beauty, though he refuses to acknowledge his fascination with her, a counter to his straight-laced rationalism.  Easily the most difficult sacrifice demanded of her is being forced to live without her own newborn son (sneaking out undetected on occasion to care for him), but Annetta takes to the baby immediately, providing the natural intimacy missing from the real mother, who can’t bear to touch the newborn, which only inflames Vittoria’s resentment, who wants her sent away immediately.  But this irrational conflict contrasts against the health improvements of the baby, who also sleeps more peacefully now and is gaining weight.  Vittoria, however, remains hateful of the woman who has maternally taken her place, making her feel unappreciated and unnecessary, instilling tones of psychological tension while upsetting the power dynamic in their aristocratic home.  Dr. Mori has his medical practice to keep him busy, so all he’s really concerned about is the health of the baby.  Told against a backdrop of leftist demonstrations, their comfortable upper middle-class existence, seemingly far from the troubles, contrasts with the violent social upheaval taking place on the streets outside, with Annetta having more than a passive interest, as her inner life and bold curiosity about such things are completely ignored by her employer, yet that unseen presence is a driving force of the film.  The son of a lawyer and a schoolteacher, Bellocchio had a strict Catholic upbringing in a bourgeois home, training briefly as an actor, while studying philosophy in Milan before switching to film school in Rome and London, establishing a career steeped in Italian history, spanning more than half a century, where he has a tendency to make defiantly anti-authoritarian films.  At the time of release, a tagline for the film was “for Marxists or romantics or both at the same time.”

Another film that the Catholic Church described as “blasphemous,” the centerpiece is a letter written to Annetta from her husband in prison, which Vittoria initially conceals from her, finding it odd that someone would be sent a letter knowing the recipient was illiterate.  Annetta asks for help learning to read and write, but Vittoria ignores the request, as does Dr. Mori, who initially tells her, “You express yourself with love.  You don’t need to learn how to write,” but eventually succumbs to her charms and makes time for her, which are some of the more tender scenes in the film, especially the way he gently guides her hand as she’s learning to write, moments filled with passion, providing an erotic texture.  But the letter itself changes the dynamics of the film.  When Dr. Mori reads the letter out loud, which urges Annetta to remain liberated and free, to never settle for convention, to remain passionate in love and in her convictions, both can’t help but be impressed by the letter’s contents, which are not the thoughts of a political agitator, but a man who refuses to be anything less than a free soul on this earth and pleads with his wife to be the same, especially because they want a better future for their own young child.  Unlike the rigid superficiality of Vittoria, who prefers strict obedience from the servants, showing no regard for them whatsoever, as in her eyes they are an inferior class, Dr. Mori is more flexible, expressing a tolerance and even a kind benevolence for others.  When Annetta asks him to help her write a response, he’s at first reluctant, thinking her husband wrote such a strong letter.  “You are strong (Tu sei forte),” she tells him, an unusual moment where both classes are regarding one another with equanimity, showing appreciation and mutual respect, something that is clearly missing in the violent street protests raging outside.  While the pace of the film is exasperatingly slow, the camerawork by Giuseppe Lanci is impressive, especially working in dim, underlit conditions where they tried to shoot under natural conditions, much of it by candlelight, reminiscent of Kubrick’s BARRY LYNDON (1975).  Of note, Dr. Mori’s medical partner, a man questioning the worth of medicine and who eventually walks side by side with the demonstrators, taking one of the mental patients with him, is none other than the director’s son and producer, Pier Giorgio Bellocchio.