Review: BLINK TWICE is a Ferocious Directorial Debut From Zoë Kravitz

Zoë Kravitz’s directorial debut Blink Twice (formerly Pussy Island) comes out swinging like Emerald Fennell with Promising Young Woman. Kravitz and co-writer E.T. Feigenbaum unleash womanly rage without a hint of subtlety, but Kravitz’s behind-the-camera demeanor stays cool as a cucumber. Aspects of Promising Young Woman, The Hunt, and Ready or Not influence a searing satirization about the sexist one-percent, lobbing grenades at manipulative therapy discourse and empty celebrity apologies. Blink Twice is appropriately despicable, excessively indulgent, darkly comedic, and playing for keeps. What a first showing, Ms. Kravitz.

Channing Tatum stars as Slater King, a once disgraced, now remorseful tech gazillionaire who healed through therapy after allegations chased him from the public eye. Naomi Ackie plays Frida, a lowly caterer who sneaks in front of Slater at a gallery event. Frida snaps her heel shank, and out of nowhere, Slater sweeps in like her savior. They flirt and sip champagne; then the unthinkable happens — Slater invites Frida and her roommate Jess (Alia Shawkat) to his private island. Suddenly, they’re on Slater’s private jet, headed to his resort compound for an undetermined escape from reality. But was it wise to join Slater and his entourage when all they know about them is their public personas?

There’s a Glass Onion vibe about Blink Twice as Slater’s dudebro posse retreats from civilization to the business mogul’s protected oasis (shot on paradise Mexican locations). Although, Glass Onion favors mockery — Blink Twice is a dirty-nailed fight for survival once Frida goes missing. Kravitz roasts lifestyles of the rich and shameless when the sun shines on cocktail umbrellas and matching bathing suits, but nightfall brings with it hedonistic antagonism. There’s a folkloric unease about Slater’s island, the way cinematographer Adam Newport-Berra frames Indigenous hired help who mutter “Red Rabbit” at Frida — vibes are immediately askew. There’s this mythical Jordan Peele undertone à la Get Out. We can assume Slater’s cohorts are hiding something yet aren’t prepared for revolting truths.

Blink Twice is a rapturous takedown of “Nice Guy” fakeness, especially in a #MeToo era where alphas like Slater have turned therapy into a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. Kravitz and Feigenbaum’s screenplay is heavy-handed when declaring war against problematic power dynamics in Hollywood and beyond, especially how Slater’s crew hides behind “wokeness” as a facade — but the film’s aversion to subtlety cakes on thick. Blink Twice is well-reasoned and beyond valid critique of men’s oppressive manipulation of women just about anywhere, but the screenplay’s insistence to repeat buzzy online catchphrases borders on overkill. It’s a live by the sword, die by the sword situation regarding the film’s verbalized aggression — often excellent, sometimes beating a dead horse.

Tatum’s portrayal of Slater as a predator in philanthropist’s fitted tuxedos showcases why he should be playing bastards more often. Blink Twice does for Tatum what Bad Times at the El Royale did for Chris Hemsworth. Slater’s this diabolical kingpin with his doofy minions played with particular laughs in mind. Simon Rex is giving Matthew Lillard vibes as superchef Cody, Christian Slater oozes sleaze as fill-in CEO Vic, Haley Joel Osment feels like he’s a second away from snapping as Tom, and then there’s Levon Hawke’s progressive on the outside babyface. They are, together, a synchronized ensemble that feeds off one another’s energy with aplomb like Very Bad Things — even if Tatum is dominating the screen. The way he utters “brunch is so fuckin’ real” will be quoted for eons as a parody of the upper class.

Then there are the island’s feminine visitors, with Naomi Ackie firmly planted as a dynamite centerpiece. Frida relishes Slater’s attentive pampering, but her journey from daydreams to nightmares unleashes a warrior from within Ackie. Adria Arjona’s resilient Sarah is another favorite, a survivalist contestant from some fake “Hot Jungle Girls” reality show who becomes Frida’s skeptical ally. Liz Caribel as Camilla and Trew Mullen as blunt queen Heather party harder than the rest as shot-slugging Woo Girls, but even they make an impact while intoxicated. Ackie and Arjona are given more meat to chew on as they investigate Slater’s “Pussy Island,” but once the film goes safeties-off in the final act, every woman gets their scene-grabbing licks in. Kravitz, telling her story from a woman’s perspective, understands how important it is to serve comeuppances across the board.

Kravitz’s ability to navigate genres is her greatest triumph in Blink Twice. How can a film this unforgiving also be bleakly hilarious? A particular bit between Slater and a piece of furniture interrupts noose-tight tension and hits like a combo one-two punch instead of deflating momentum. Kravitz borrows from psychological gender-wedge thrillers, introduces “Final Girl” slasher tropes, and skewers vapid “Good For Her” type flicks while trying to satisfy all urges come the film’s conclusion. Perhaps Kravitz pulls the film in too many directions at points, but she never crumbles under the weight of tonal ambitions — the grab-bag randomness works in her favor.

Is Blink Twice a perfect microcosmic case study about the perils of camouflaged misogyny that’s dressed to impress? There are stumbles in Slater’s representation of modern male evils and weaponization of therapy speak — but that doesn’t diminish the film’s entertainment value. Blink Twice is a riot. Kravitz announces herself with a shotgun scatter of ferocious, funny, and frightening social commentaries that might not hit the bullseye but get the job done. Add a heavyweight ensemble, one of my favorites of the year so far, and I’d dub Blink Twice quite the blistering debut.

Movie Score: 4/5