It’s difficult to remember a time before I knew about Don’t Worry Darling. It feels like it has always existed; like it was here before everyone I know was born; like it is more ancient than time itself. And yet somehow the gossip juggernaut only landed in cinemas this week. In the haze of puzzling behind-the-scenes drama, red carpet antics and endless Twitter clips of Harry Styles trying to out-act Florence Pugh (bless him), one thing has got a bit lost, and that’s the actual film itself. Discussion about it seems to have boiled down to two fairly pedestrian questions: is Don’t Worry Darling any good, and is Harry Styles any good? Surely, though, it’s more interesting to ask what the film is trying to say about the contemporary moment. Because, behind the haze and hype, Olivia Wilde’s movie is about fantasy and the dangers of nostalgia. It’s about feminist backlash and alt-right male anger. It’s about tradwives.
A procession of sexy pastel cars pulls out from a cul-de-sac. In the cars: men in suits. In the driveways: a parade of dolls, plumped, cinched and blowing kisses. Eggs and bacon in frying pans, a fresh pot of coffee, a bit of hoovering. Oral sex on the dining table when hubby gets home; an orgasm near the roast beef. How steamy and delicious, what a dream. On the lustrous, high sheen surface, Pugh’s Alice and Styles’s Jack are living the picture-perfect all-American mid-century life. In the desert enclave town of Victory, they are – according to their enigmatic and glossy leader Frank (Chris Pine) – embarking on an exciting and progressive exploit. And so, the women stay home, while the menfolk head off for jobs at the mysterious Victory Project, where they make “progressive materials”.
