Henrik Ibsen’s second-most famous play, Hedda Gabler, has been plenty messed around with in recent years. There was a much-derided stage production starring Mary-Louise Parker. There was Liz Meriwether’s sci-fi reimagining, Heddatron. And now there is Nia DaCosta’s film Hedda, a rejiggering of the narrative that places a premium on subterfuge and sexual intrigue. It sometimes lands its intended jolt, but too often mistakes arch style for profundity.
That was also true of DaCosta’s Candyman sequel, an endlessly attractive film that was an otherwise confused update of the 1992 classic. Hedda fares better; it’s the work of a more assured and restrained writer-director, one who is willing to, on occasion, let visual flash take a backseat to more mechanical matters of storytelling. But there is nonetheless a recklessness to DaCosta’s version, its brash iconoclasm throws both baby and bathwater out of the manor-house window.
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