Skip to main content

"Promising Young Woman"

 "Promising Young Woman" is polarizing--which is a good sign.

This is the story of Cassie, who works in a coffee shop. She once made her way through parts of med school, but a brilliant classmate, Nina, was assaulted, and Cassie dropped out to take care of Nina. Others now look at Cassie--others, including Nina's mother--and ask, "Why can't you move on?"

The assailant--who seems pretty clearly modeled on Brett Kavanaugh--emerges unscathed. He begins a medical practice and becomes engaged to a "really solid find."

A stranger comes to town. This stranger has new information about the assailant. Cassie suddenly finds herself pursuing vengeance; abductions are staged, hitmen are hired. And we're only part-way through Act Two.

This movie has a wonderful one-two punch at the end; the first twist involves Bo Burnham, and the second takes place in a kind of woodsy luxe lodge. The story has true shape-shifters, and our heroine is actually an antiheroine. (She is also weirdly charming. When someone offends her in the coffee shop and jokingly says, "Sorry, you can spit in my coffee..." the star does, actually, spit in that person's coffee. Carey Mulligan does this with her strange, quiet charisma--and we're mesmerized.)

Like "Get Out," "PYW" uses a thriller formula to make some points about actual behaviors in the world; in this case, the behaviors have to do with gender, not race. Like "Get Out," "PYW" drew major names early on: Connie Britton, Alison Brie, Molly Shannon, Laverne Cox, Alfred Molina.

This is a movie that swings for the fences, and after having struggled to stay awake for the noble, tedious "One Night in Miami," I can say, emphatically, that "PYW" is the movie to rent. May Ms. Mulligan triumph at the Golden Globes.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...