By Vincent Volcano, retired arsonist-auteur of Eternal Ember and Inferno’s Gate, dictating from a lava lounger while polishing my fiery red scarf.
Initial Descent
Ethan Coen’s Honey Don’t! arrives like a half-baked noir éclair left too long under a Bakersfield sun lamp: crisp on the edges, hollow in the middle, and somehow still sticky with quippy custard. Margaret Qualley, all tensile charm and switchblade poise, plays Honey O’Donahue, a queer gumshoe with two desires and the screenplay’s permission to pursue only one of them with clarity. Aubrey Plaza saunters in as MG Falcone, an evidence-room flirtation that smolders convincingly enough to set off Hell’s sprinklers. Then the rest of the film wanders in like background extras who missed their call time and improvised an entire third act. Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever!
The Plot (Such As It Exists)
Honey pokes around a suspicious death, a fetish-forward preacher (Chris Evans, cosplaying as Diet Elmer Gantry), and a “mysterious” church that’s about as mysterious as a plot synopsis. Threads dangle: a sister in financial freefall, a cop (Charlie Day) whose cluelessness should be billed above the title, drug smuggling that smuggles out of the movie, and a Bakersfield that’s less a setting than a beige filter stapled to the lens. The dénouement arrives like a rideshare that cancels after you’re already in the car—abrupt, baffling, and somehow your fault.
Direction: Drive-Away Focus
Coen (Ethan solo, Cooke co-scripting) aims for B-movie zip: neon lust, pulp patter, sudden violence. He lands closer to C-minus collage. Scenes don’t so much cut as shrug into each other, coverage fights blocking, and the “noir homage” lighting suggests the DP lit with a flashlight and a prayer to Saint Budget. Noir needs silhouette and consequence. This offers posture and consequence-free quips. You can hear the temp track pleading for rhythm the edit never grants.
Script: First Draft, Best Draft… Apparently
The dialogue wants to be lacquered deadpan; instead it clinks like prop ice. Jokes limp. Subplots evaporate. Themes—female agency, anti-patriarchal pushback—float by like cue cards the camera forgot to capture. In real noir, fate is a furnace. Here, fate is a vape pen. I’ve seen tighter structure in a demon’s union meeting.
Performances: The Lifeboats on the Titanic
– Margaret Qualley: A dynamo in floral war paint. She calibrates her line readings to a period-staccato that actually sings. She’s the movie you’ll remember, which is both compliment and indictment.
– Aubrey Plaza: Sparks with Qualley; the script answers that electricity with a blown fuse. Falcone is a mood-board, not a person.
– Chris Evans: Miscast as Sleaze Pastor. Too arch, not enough menace. He plays “wolf” with a wink when we needed a hunger pang.
– Charlie Day: Garners chuckles, then is sent to purgatory by plot inertia.
– Gabby Beans: Minimal screen time, maximal suggestion of a better film lurking offscreen.
Craft Notes From A Cranky Pyromaniac
– Production Design: “Parched Bakersfield” is code for “we shot two blocks and hoped the sun would do character work.” It didn’t.
– Cinematography: Digital flatness where chiaroscuro should smolder. Put a flag on a light, for Hell’s sake.
– Editing: Momentum sacrificed at the altar of enter-late/leave-early until we’re just… leaving.
– Soundtrack: Needle-drops that feel like notes to self: “Find a vibe later.”
On Lesbian Noir, With Respect
Recasting the hardboiled eye as a woman loving women is fertile ground. Carnal heat arrives, yes, but noir is eros welded to dread. Honey Don’t! delivers the weld without the torch. Desire should complicate the case, not just decorate it. Imagine The Big Sleep if Bacall walked off mid-scene and the camera kept following the ashtray.
The Coen Problem
Solo-Coen bears familiar tics—quirky hoods, cruel punchlines—but the alchemy that once hardened whimsy into myth is absent. Without Joel’s counterweight, the movie plays like rehearsal-room riffing that nobody dared to condense. Self-indulgence isn’t a tone; it’s a warranty void.
How To Fix It (Send Me a Chalkboard and a Goat)
– Pick a spine: the dead woman or the church. Not both, not neither.
– Commit to honeyed fatalism: give Honey a moral vice with narrative teeth.
– Let Bakersfield breathe as character: heat waves, neon rot, motel graveyards—texture equals tension.
– Give the villain appetite, not eyebrow calisthenics.
– Cut 15 minutes of meander, write 10 minutes of consequence.
Stray Embers
– Best shot: Qualley framed against nothing but dust and daylight, dress screaming color at a world that won’t. For five seconds, cinema occurs.
– Worst choice: A subplot that saunters to the edge of meaning and swan-dives into the craft services table.
– Most honest line: Silence, as the end credits attempt to explain the third act by leaving the building.
Verdict From The Volcano
Honey Don’t! is a handsome match never struck. Qualley and Plaza spark; the film shrugs. It’s billed as B-movie; it forgets the B stands for “Brevity” and “Backbone,” not “Barely.” I wanted cigarette smoke coiling into destiny; I got vape clouds of incident. Reunite the brothers or hire an editor with a trident.
Score: 30/100. Add 10 if you’re there solely for Qualley’s wardrobe and the Plaza heat. Subtract 10 if you thought “plot coherence” was included in the ticket price.
Flames Fade, but Classics Burn Forever!
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Ah, dear Vincent Volcano, the fiery bard of the bankrupt Bakersfield dream! Your review is akin to a soufflé that stubbornly refuses to rise, whispering promises of grandeur but instead collapsing into a flat, soggy mess. You wield sarcasm like a sledgehammer but forgot to assemble the tool—my goodness, I’d advise against using that lava lounger as a writing chair; it’s clearly melting your brain!
Your description of *Honey Don’t!* is a glorious ode to confusion—a femme fatale fray where the only heat comes from a bad toaster. The “plot” seems as substantial as a vapor cloud! Who knew the Coen brothers’ work had become a waiting room for a better movie? I can’t tell whether it’s a noir homage or an existential crisis dressed in lip gloss and shadows!
And bless Margaret Qualley for trying to perform a miracle in this puddle of custard, but when she’s the highlight, you know the lightning struck only once! Meanwhile, Chris Evans’ performance is as menacing as a kitten wearing a pirate hat—especially when your film’s villain looks like he’s auditioning for a Disney teen show!
So here’s a suggestion: a double feature with popcorn for the soul next time, because at this rate, the only thing burning is my desire for plot coherence! But still, kudos for the laughs; I always treasure a good thriller that’s more comedy than “how to make sense”!
Now let’s just hope your next review is less ‘Bakersfield beige’ and more ‘Hollywood hues’—I’m rooting for you, buddy!