A #MeToo nightmare whose censure is dull, surprises are predictable, and ugliness is tame, Blink Twice, in theaters August 23, proves a wan thriller in an overtly Get Out mold.
Actress Zoë Kravitz’ directorial debut boasts an enchantingly malevolent lead performance from Channing Tatum as a Jeffrey Epstein-esque tech titan with a penchant for “having a good time,” as well as a slick, inviting sheen that portends promising scares. Alas, there’s nothing very unsettling about its eventual horrors, in large part because the film is too infatuated with its sleek style to get its hands dirty.
Sitting on the toilet flipping through her Instagram reels, Frida (Naomi Ackie) is transfixed by a video of tech billionaire Slater King (Tatum) publicly apologizing for the umpteenth time for inappropriate sexual behavior that’s compelled him to step down as CEO of his company. As it turns out, Frida and her roommate/best friend Jess (Alia Shawkat) work for a catering company that’s handling Slater’s latest gala event, and after performing their duties, the two don swanky cocktail dresses and crash the party, where Frida catches Slater’s eye by wiping out in front of everyone.
This isn’t the sole momentous fall suffered by Frida, and it gains her and Jess an unofficial invite into Slater’s inner circle of hangers-on, who include pinky-less shutterbug Vic (Christian Slater), chef Cody (Simon Rex), Survivor legend Sarah (Adria Arjona), nerdy Tom (Haley Joel Osment), and beauties Camilla (Liz Caribel) and Heather (Trew Mullen).
At the end of the evening, Slater invites Frida and Jess to accompany them to his private island, where the food is local, the champagne is bottomless, the psychotropic drugs are plentiful, and cell phones aren’t allowed. Arriving at his expansive compound, Frida is dazzled, and she and Jess swiftly slip into everyone’s daily routine of wearing matching white island wear, smoking “fat blunts” poolside, and eating gourmet meals prepared by Cody.
Doing as the rich and famous do, Frida habitually wears the perfume found in her swanky villa, and when she discovers an old, used mascara tube in her bathroom drawer, she throws it away with triumphant dismissiveness, embracing her role as Slater’s new object of affection.
Sarah also has eyes for the hunky mogul, but Blink Twice doesn’t seriously develop her and Frida’s rivalry, nor does it do much with Stacy (Geena Davis), Slater’s attentive right-hand woman. Instead, it immerses itself in the lap of luxury, which is so enticing that—along with the nightly narcotized revelry that leaves everyone scrambled and hungover in the morning—Frida and company quickly lose track of their days.
For Frida, this is too good to be true, and of course it is, as Kravitz drops numerous clues that there’s more to this perfection than meets the eye. An elderly groundskeeper with a snake tattoo on her arm repeats the phrase “red robin” whenever she sees Frida. Slater informs Frida that he’s trying to exterminate the pesky vipers that populate the island. And conversations are peppered with comments about “making memories,” remembering and forgetting, and the first rule of Fight Club—all of which suggest dark buried secrets.
Liz Caribel and Trew Mullen
Amazon MGM StudiosBlink Twice’s first half is full of such hints, and they’re tantalizing enough to elicit at least moderate curiosity about the true nature of this paradise. Kravitz and co-writer E.T. Feigenbaum’s script augments its mystery by refusing to properly delineate most of its players and their relationship to Slater; they’re just some of the seemingly innumerable friends and acquaintances that drift into a playboy billionaire’s party-hard orbit. Unfortunately, though, that makes them frustratingly opaque and negates any reaction to their heroism or villainy, and contributes to the story’s lack of concrete details. Suggestion may be good at the outset, but a lack of definitive answers ultimately negates any climactic shocks.
Blink Twice infers rather than outright states to the point of exasperation, and that goes double for its refusal to depict the wannabe-shocking nastiness at its core. At the moment of truth, Kravitz pulls her punches, depicting her protagonists’ agony in vague terms that undercut her critique of entitled wealth and vicious misogyny. Her film doesn’t eat the rich so much as halfheartedly nibble them, in the process squandering Tatum’s deft turn as an affluent 21st-century Adonis whose charm and power are not to be trusted, and whose success grants him license to do as he pleases.
Slater is most alarming when he’s charismatic, but the material lets him down, saddling him with an ambiguously traumatic backstory and sketchy therapy-speak about the benefits of analysis (which he receives from Kyle MacLachlan’s doc) and his belief in consuming liquid psilocybin “with intention.”
Frida and Jess’ boss tells them to “smile more” and be “invisible,” and Frida counsels her BFF (who has an unpleasant ex-boyfriend) to “stop giving away your power.” Such remarks speak to the sexism faced by women on a daily basis, the importance of countering it with staunch sisterhood, and the terrifying ordeal the duo will swiftly endure. Blink Twice, however, never formulates more than a generic denunciation of privileged chauvinism and public displays of celebrity apologia, the latter of which seems ripe for ridicule and yet (like Slater’s, ahem, pussy posse ways) is only sketchily mocked.
Zoë Kravitz and Channing Tatum at a Blink Twice photocall in London
Nicky J Sims/Getty ImagesWorse, the saga’s lack of specifics means that its revelations land with a shrug; it’s difficult to feel much of anything about bad behavior that’s imagined this hazily. It’s as if the film assumed that everyone would be on its socio-political side (correct) and, therefore, that it didn’t need to flesh out its monstrousness (incorrect).
Kravitz’s stewardship is sinister and Chanda Dancy’s score is ominous, yet Blink Twice is run of the mill and its resemblance to Get Out doesn’t do it any favors. It’s simply too easy to get out ahead of these proceedings, and that problem is exacerbated by the fact that the film barely cares to explicate the nuts and bolts of its madness. With a more polished screenplay, the actress-turned-director might have generated real menace. As it stands, though, her maiden behind-the-camera outing is the sort of late summer throwaway that’s now normally reserved for streaming.
