Bad Times at the El Royale

This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.

This review may contain spoilers.

A repeated refrain about the superficial virtues of American states, delivered without passion or believability, is the skeleton key to the whole enterprise. An implausibly neat and gaudy surface disguising deep darkness. Illusions held onto well past their prime. A series of cliches peeled back to reveal what they hide. A world on fire, yes, where institutional forces of authority will not save you. But also one where speaking truth to power can rupture illusion, and one where it's never to late to seek absolution, and even if it's just a comforting lie, doing something is better than doing nothing. And, finally, a chance to start again, shedding the burdens and disguises of an ideologically corrupt past, to build something new and true. Hold on. We're coming.

Reviewing properly on RNZ tomorrow night, as best as I can, but one thing I won't be able to explain is how Dolores's choice not to wear a wig in the final scene destroyed me, something that wouldn't have registered if I hadn't been reading around Viola Davis's use of her natural hair in WIDOWS.