Review: ‘Blink Twice’ Is Girl Bossing Without Intention
'Blink Twice' (2024)
“Are you having a good time?” This is the question consistently asked by Slater King (Channing Tatum) throughout Blink Twice. It feels like a cushioning statement that wraps around a simple thriller film that overstays its welcome or perhaps like an actual question that co-writer/director Zoë Kravitz keeps asking the audience, with insecurity hidden behind the brightly colored world of terror and high-end sunglasses.
It’s a sensible question to ask the audience. This is a directorial debut that blends satirical terror into an “eat the rich to become the rich” narrative we’ve become all too familiar with. Yet, the subject matter doesn’t warrant an answer to the repeated questioning about whether or not we are enjoying ourselves. Instead, it sets up an expectation that demands an answer as Frida (Naomi Ackie) pushes her sleek, side-swept bangs out of her face and takes a sip from her victory drink. If this is the good time we’re being asked about, then sure, I’m having a good time. But this isn’t a film that wants to be just a good time, yet that’s all it is: fun—a concept that, if pushed too far, could spell the eventual death of visual storytelling.
Originally titled Pussy Island, but changed to the more poster-friendly Blink Twice, the movie fails to capture a strong sense of intrigue necessary to pull off the provocative subject matter it aims to spotlight. While it builds toward being something deliciously controversial (a warning Amazon MGM Studios presents at the beginning of the film), it fails to be audacious enough to touch on something uncomfortable about our society and our passive roles within it. Instead, we step back from the movie with the understanding that being passive saves our asses. It is not the message the “girl boss” ending wanted to convey, but it does so nonetheless.
Knowing the type of movie this is, we feel a sense of fear for Frida as she tries to get closer to Slater’s orbit, hoping to taste what it’s like to be in a world that seems black, white, and beautiful. It’s only when her lack of upper-class polish and her understandably bold desire for something more cause her to trip into Slater’s life that he invites her and her best friend/roommate/co-worker Jess (Alia Shawkat) to join him and several others at his private island. Frida and Jess eagerly accept, despite Frida and the audience knowing that Slater has just recently apologized for his Harvey Weinstein-coded crimes.
Kravitz nails the opening, capturing it with a blink-and-you-miss-it title card that kicks off a lavish vacation filled with food porn, mysterious drugs, exotic flowers mixed in perfume, and white clothing galore. Petty jealousy and the butterflies of a blossoming cross-class romance are in full swing as Frida spends day after day swimming, eating, and enjoying the luxuries of the rich.
While curious clues—a missing yellow lighter, dirty nails, unexplained bruises—begin to appear, everyone brushes them off as consequences of a night of fun. To Frida, this is what rich people do. How is she supposed to know any better? Despite her suspicion that something is wrong, everything comes to a head when a worker on the island offers Frida a green shot. Frida’s “fuck it” attitude leads her to take a swing of the drink, only to realize seconds later that she drank snake venom.
The yellow snake, symbolizing rebirth and wisdom, offers the women of the island something that has been missing since they arrived: their memories of the horrific sexual violence inflicted on them night after night.
This is where the film begins to promise the discovery of something insightful, a critique of our culture and the stature of celebrity, but it never follows through.
As the women begin to remember and retaliate against the men—who are cowards beneath them, begging the women to forgive and forget—the film struggles to figure out how it wants to position power. The film mentions that there is power in forgetting, but Slater’s ideology, passed down to the men like secret knowledge and forced upon the women in the form of perfume, gets muddled by Slater’s belief in controlling forgetfulness. To him, life is better if people just forgive and forget, but the moments he forgets something due to Frida’s quick thinking—a bottle of perfume and a vape—his power is gone. Is the power in the hands of those who make others forget? In some ways, this shifts the dynamic of abuse. However, this isn’t fully explored because the story operates in a world where everything is black and white: men are bad, those who keep secrets are bad, and the women in white are good. Unfortunately, the material the story wants to explore is too complex for this first-time filmmaker.
While the style of the movie disorients the audience, making them feel stuck in a place of suspended reality, the story struggles to support the overall vibe of the movie. This could be forgiven if the story leaned more into female horror, or even Black horror, as the two final girls are women of color, to emphasize that this culture of sexual violence has been supported and uplifted by men of power and privilege, forcing women to conform if they want to lead “successful” lives. For Frida, the price of taking a lavish vacation from her apartment back home—filled with black mold—is repaid with bloody revenge. Rape revenge stories like this are nothing new to the genre, but pushing the conversation past the simple notion that men act out violence because of their privilege is a conversation that has been explored more fully in films from a few years ago.
What keeps Blink Twice from becoming something more notable are the characters. They simply exist in Frida’s and Slater’s orbit but never contribute anything greater to the story. Kravitz and co-writer E.F. Feigenbaum don’t spend enough time fleshing them out or giving them anything to do other than be victims or abusers—Sarah (Adria Arjona) is a rare exception and arguably the most interesting character. Any time a character gets close to being three-dimensional, something catches their attention, distracting them from a moment of revelation that the audience needs. Even Frida falls victim to this as she saves Slater from an all-consuming fire of female rage only to become his abuser later in life, inflicting her new power over Slater to get what she wants. Maybe it’s just revenge, but it feels like a “girl boss” moment rather than one that justifies the character we’ve come to know.
Suspending your disbelief in the third act will make this movie feel like a well-earned treat, especially on a Friday night, but this movie feels late to the #MeToo conversation. It is not quite the performative art for female empowerment that has been expertly satirized in The Boys (“Girls really do get it done”), but it teeters dangerously close.
This debut is not enough to make Kravitz a screenwriter to watch. Instead, it would be more interesting to see what she does with material she doesn’t write. She has style and vibes that are unsurprisingly worthy of the silver screen. Unfortunately, Kravitz does not understand the satirical nature of horror well enough to add anything of value to the conversation she is trying to have.
'Blink Twice' (2024)
Blink Twice had more to offer than I expected. It’s stylish and coherent—qualities that may seem like the least one could ask from a movie, but they are still things I often find myself needing to ask for.
While it doesn't rank among the great female horror films, I think there's something valuable in watching it for the eye and intimacy Kravitz brings behind the camera. She can translate emotion through blocking and visual choices in a way that many directors struggle to achieve throughout their careers. Blink Twice hints at where Kravitz could go if she steps away from the keyboard.
