Photo Illustration by Erin O’Flynn/The Daily Beast/Getty
Listen, I am no fan of Don’t Worry Darling. It’s riddled with plot holes, one of the leads can’t act, and the twist ending is both nonsensical and derivative. Hell, even its title is grammatically deficient. And the film’s director, Olivia Wilde, deserves some of the blame. She recruited a sexy pop star for a demanding role—who she then romanced—when he clearly wasn’t ready; disparaged her eminently likable leading lady in an effort to lure back the accused abuser he replaced; is rumored to have butted heads with said leading lady; cringeworthily bragged about the film’s illogical sex scenes in interviews (“Men don’t come in this film… only women here!”); and framed the entire picture as an anti-incel paean to feminism when it is anything but.
Warner Bros. Discovery, its embattled distributor, deserves some as well. The company inexplicably positioned the film as a prestige Oscar contender, replete with an award-season release date/ad campaign and flashy unveiling at the Venice Film Festival, instead of the trashy thriller it is.
All this sound and fury has resulted in a reputational hit to Wilde, who’s been cast as the villain of this tabloid saga in the eyes of the public. Whether that’s fair or not is up for debate, but one thing is certain: she is a goddamn saint compared to David O. Russell.