Review: Blink Twice

Director:  Zoë Kravitz

Stars:  Naomi Ackie, Alia Shawkat, Channing Tatum

Haley Joel Osment’s pitiable former-sitcom showrunner Tom may prove to be one of Blink Twice‘s more loathsome characters (for reasons best not spoiled here), but one thing’s for sure; he’s a dab-hand picking party tunes from his omnipresent tablet. Soundtracking a halcyon vacation on a billionaire’s private island, Tom allows first-time director Zoë Kravitz the pretext to pepper her genre-snaking debut with all manner of bangers, from Candi Staton’s ‘Young Hearts Run Free’ to Rufus & Chaka Khan’s ‘Ain’t Nobody’.

One song that kept coming to my mind while watching – that doesn’t appear in the film – is Jefferson Airplane’s Alice in Wonderland riff ‘White Rabbit’, particularly its opening gambit “One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small”. A direct reference to Lewis Carroll’s trippy tale, this duality fits well with the secret mechanics at the heart of Blink Twice – a film that also houses plenty of cinematic reference points, from Jordan Peele to Stanley Kubrick. Still, this tangential tilt to Carroll stuck with me throughout, as Kravitz uses the framework of a horror/thriller hybrid to take us down a particularly angry and evergreen rabbit hole…

Meet Frida (Naomi Ackie), a Black woman struggling to makes ends meet trapped in the gig economy, clutching at hostessing stints with her roomie and bestie Jess (Alia Shawkat). Their latest job brings the two of them into the sphere of disgraced entrepreneur Slater King (Channing Tatum), a hunky example of the mega-rich currently receding from the public eye for some vaguely referenced misdeeds. Frida is magnetically drawn to his celebrity and makes a stumble right into his arms during the event. One thing leads to another and she and Jess are invited, spur of the moment, back to the private island where King has sequestered himself for his acts of contrition. Accompanied by a jet-setting entourage of good timers, Frida and Jess ignore many red flags for the opportunity to bask in the good life, if only for the span of a whirlwind vacation.

A lot has happened in the world – and Hollywood particularly – since Kravitz and co-writer E. T. Feigenbaum started conceptualising Blink Twice (formerly monikered the more on-the-nose Pussy Island) nearly a decade ago. Particularly the rise and regression of the #TimesUp and #MeToo movements. Abuse of power and fraught gender dynamics are very much at the heart of Kravitz’s piece. It’s an energised, pissed-off treaty on these topics (one that thoughtfully comes pre-packaged with a trigger warning for those who might not feel ready to run the gamut of emotions invoked on Kravitz’s rollercoaster ride).

The very allure of Slater King’s offer to taste the high life is tinged or heightened by the element of danger intrinsic in the proposition. He’s a large, charismatic man offering something delectable with an element of risk. It’s a power play that folds in the exoticism of a lifestyle out of reach for people at Frida and Jess’ strata. Something they’re forever locked out of by the glass wall of a gliding touchscreen. Whatever bad behaviour he’s been publicly admonished for must be in the minds of these two women – intoxicated though they may be – at the point when a decision needs to be made. Blink Twice confronts the notion that passive aggressive manipulation is utilised in these situations to coerce women into acting against their better judgement. King weaponises his own wealth and allure. Peer pressure does much of the rest.

Once whisked away to his island getaway, the real world is quickly removed from the picture. Phones are confiscated. Clothes replaced with identikit white garbs (a blessing in the editing room, for sure). Alcohol and drugs are on tap as social lubricant and Frida and Jess quickly lose track of the days. Yet telltale signs keep suggesting that King’s endless parties are, in fact, Not Okay. His hacienda is literally a nest of vipers. What was that opening shot of the movie again? So much has happened you can’t quite remember…?

Memory is an exceptionally important part of Kravitz’s wickedly entertaining yet furious tirade. If anything has proven more troubling than the horror stories conjured in the #MeToo movement, it’s been the banal return to normalcy and the slew of slow media rehabilitations that have been attempted in the years since. A grim indictment on human nature that we only have the capacity to care about crimes or tragedies for so long. Forgetting and forgiveness are touchy concepts in this arena, and Blink Twice goes at both. It may not do so with subtlety, but its so ready to engage with these notions that dancing around them smacks of timidity. Here, one feels, Kravitz has decided we’ve lost the privilege of subtext.

We’ve seen examples of this in mainstream cinema before – and recently – where such inelegance has fallen afoul. Don’t Worry Darling. Saltburn. Well-intentioned yet clumsy manifestos, toppled by inconsistency or incompetence. Blink Twice sits apart from its sisters, thanks mainly to the confidence and gusto evidenced by its creator. Kravitz emerges here fully formed, evoking Jordan Peele’s Get Out in several ways, but most importantly the sense that she’s been ready for this all along. This is a popularist thrill-ride that doesn’t forget the laughs, that also feels robustly packaged. Adam Newport-Berra’s cinematography is slick, handsome, overripe with verdantly popping colours. Several scenes are impressively, even ornately choreographed, yet pulled off with apparent ease. The edit is tight and propulsive, even if the middle act deliberately dawdles as the characters lose their sense of time and space. Kubrick’s The Shining is evoked here, particularly. All Kravitz needs to complete the picture are those deliberately useless intertitles (‘Monday’? which Monday??).

And then there’s the cast. Tatum has been a secret weapon for a while now. Soderbergh knew this, and has previously been the best at turning that charm to his advantage (the Mikes, Logan Lucky, Side Effects…). The actor clearly worked closely with Kravitz to create something knotty here, more layered than your average Hollywood interpretation of a tech billionaire. But the real fanfare ought to be for Naomi Ackie, a seasoned player who takes hold of her lead position with an unforced energy. Shawkat is always a pleasure to have in the mix but, as the story unfolds, its Adria Arjona’s reality TV veteran Sarah who comes to the fore as Frida’s significant other. Having bedazzled in Linklater’s Hit Man already this year, Arjona is clearly primed for – and worthy of – her place in the major leagues. Simon Rex, Christian Slater and the aforementioned Osment are pitch-perfect in their respective roles as King’s comical wolves in sheep’s clothing; a motley crew of coasters and leeches whom Kravitz gleefully makes fools of.

Things turn violent as Blink Twice reveals its genre allegiances, but its the coda to the movie that one might end up chewing over most heartily. What it means for the characters who survive to the end. How complicit it makes them in King’s criminality. To what lengths is power inherently corrupting…? These feel like deliberate provocations. The energy is joyous. Another “good for her” moment for the canon. Yet its an uneasy victory. This, too, ensures that Blink Twice lingers in the aftermath; what’s missing – and what’s been lost – as important as what’s sitting in front of your face.