Written by: Keaton Marcus

I left the theater showing Alex Garland’s deliciously provocative third feature, Men, with a root beer still 3/4ths full and a packet of M&Ms barely touched. The only films where I don’t dive into a soda or candy or popcorn by the end are the ones that really, truly get to me. Jaw agape throughout the last 30 minutes, I felt confused and disturbed by the grotesque conclusion, as I had been in the shoes of Jessie Buckley’s Harper for 100 minutes. The discourse around this film is disappointingly lacking, to say the least, and I couldn't help but disagree with all the one-liner popular reviews on Letterboxd that read along the lines of “men bad.”

(a whole other issue that I will not discuss with modern film discourse is the prioritization of nice-sounding blurbs ready to get spam liked over reviews that have something cool to say.)

Compared to Edgar Wright’s Last Night in Soho frequently, both admittedly explore toxic masculinity, but Wright’s movie is so shallow and focused on pretty visuals and neat editing while this does have more than “men and nostalgia bad” on its mind. It’s Garland for crying out loud. Now the film is still gorgeous looking, with an idyllic location and some gnarly, impressive make-up in the final act. Props to the entire crew—it’s a technical marvel. The performances are there, with powerhouse work from Buckley (I mean what else do you expect from her now) and particularly Kinnear, who takes the Vicar and Geoffrey to another level of terrifying. Both actors have such malleable faces so prone to genuine human reaction and chemistry. It’s always awesome watching two performers who know what the hell they’re doing on-screen.

Now, it’s far from perfect. Garland, especially in the 3rd act, has a lot to say. I interpreted it as this final sign of generational residue when it comes to toxic masculinity; a reproduction of misogyny passed on with more feeble results each time around. The poisonous bigotry remains, however. I feel as if the execution often becomes too mired in pretentiousness and incoherent, albeit dazzling visuals. So much is there that it inevitably becomes two fascinating tales; one of remembering and coming to terms with a past trauma fueled by gaslighting and pain with a lover, and how what came before translates into Harper’s present.

Ari Aster’s Midsommar followed similar footsteps, but more satisfyingly with its connective tissue in between the timelines. The correlation between the constant flashbacks here and these scary clone men attacking Harper at random moments felt too flimsy and unconvincing. If tightened up, this really could have been something to be reckoned with. Still, at its best, it’s a very scary and riveting cat and mouse thriller infused with commentary about the generic, carbon copy aspects of modern toxic masculinity and how it results in female trauma—it’s just messy, unfortunately.

I always give Garland and other modern directors in horror props for giving me something to ponder over the next day. I love a good ride from someone like James Wan, but on occasion, I prefer a film that I’m able to dive deep into on the ride home, scouring the internet for explanations on what I just watched instead of relishing in fleeting jump scares.

Alex Garland is an undeniable talent, and although his newest is also his most flawed and incomplete, it's just as fascinating as Ex Machina and Annihilation.

*bonus points to the elderly woman next to me who kept screaming “fuck yeah” every time Buckley did something cool*