Three Overrated Films That People Love – and How to Fix Them
This isn’t about fun-terrible films like The Room or Plan 9 from Outer Space.
This is about films that had great potential and squandered it, which is a far graver sin than being hilariously and undeniably crap from the get go. These are the ones that people actually, and totally inexplicably, love.
The problem is that there are severe flaws with each of these that have–absolutely since day one–seemed absolutely glaring to me. I won’t judge these films’ die-hard fans, but I will point these fans to better films.
On some level, it’s worrying for the future of the art and the industry that such films have developed such a devoted following. Perhaps this is all some sort of twisted placebo effect: these days we are so starved for decent films that we simply wish a chaotic mess into being “good.”
Now that’s not to say that I haven’t seen these films multiple times (I have) and not that they don’t have good aspects to them (they do).
Even better, I’ll outline some fairly simple fixes that could solve a lot of the bullshit.
1. Donnie Darko (2001)
The steaming hot mess that a whole generation thinks is a masterpiece.
Quite honestly, the first half of Donnie Darko is one of the greatest movies of the past 30 years. Its acting is top-notch, the camera work is stunning, and the tone is unparalleled: a special sort of teenage dread that few films have so artfully captured. Jake Gyllenhaal’s starmaking turn is still powerful. Frank the Bunny still terrifies. The Swayze is in top form.
And then…
The cack-handed metaphysics. Confused time travel loops. Time portals that appear for no reason. It’s totally unclear what Grandma Death has to do with anything, whether she knew, blah, blah, blah. And no, Sparkle Motion doesn’t answer any questions. No one’s expecting the physics to be explained down to the formula, but it needs to be sufficiently stable for suspension of disbelief.
Instead, it becomes an incoherent grab bag of attempted profundity, like a cinematic version of humanities “theorists” whose impenetrable writing (intentionally?) obscures a staggering lack of actual insight.
How to fix Donnie Darko:
1. Focus the narrative:
Strip away the confusing time-travel mechanics. Less is more. If it don’t make sense, don’t try to make it. Notice how little hard science is in the best science fiction. We want to believe, not be drowned in half-baked, internally inconsistent theories. In short, Donnie’s angst matters. The fucking wormhole diagram doesn’t.
2. Choose–dream logic or science fiction:
The first half works with dream logic. Donnie’s coming of age, tinged with visceral horror. The second half is how not to write an exposition-laden science fiction film. Choose one. I’ll let you pick.
3. Ground the stakes in character:
Donnie’s journey becomes about saving Gretchen’s life, but in a practical, rather than emotional, sense. Donnie’s sacrifice needs to feel personal rather than convenient to the behavior of those pesky time vortices.
When people say “it’s about the vibe,” I get it. The vibe is real and it’s stunning. I’ve also heard the outsider argument from a colleague that “perhaps it’s because Donnie’s life is falling apart that the coherence of the plot falls apart by the end.” I thought about that one for about ten seconds, but I’m going to have to go with the idea that Richard Kelly’s writing skills didn’t stack up with his ambitions here.
(I mean have you seen The Box?)
Honestly, there’s a great film buried somewhere in Donnie Darko. The problem is that that great film is buried under reels of ludicrous cod-physics.
Recommended watching:
If you’re interested in films/series that effectively balance physics with story, check out Primer (2004) and Alex Garland’s miniseries DEVS (2020).
2. Saltburn (2023)
Not as clever or subversive as you think. Mostly just posh people mocking you.
Fucking vibes. Again.
There are numerous reasons to hate this movie. It’s 45 minutes too long, way less clever than it thinks it is, and there are even things that make one question the technical nous of the filmmakers: even if I take on board that the 4:3 formatting was a deeply thought-through choice (maybe), there’s still little excuse for the first act to be shot a stop and a half too dark.
Saltburn paints itself a sexy satire of class, where the champion is–naturally–the middle class outsider who infiltrates the hallowed halls of first, Oxford, and second, the English Upper Class. Emerald Fennell definitely understands how to provoke, and has done so before both with Promising Young Woman and her work on Killing Eve.
The ultra-awkward vibes as Oliver tries to find his place in each of the two worlds are often spot-on, at least in certain scenes. There is a lot of truly memorable imagery. I will never again be able to hear Sophie Ellis-Bextor without flashing on Barry Keoghan’s semi.
However, underneath all this, the film is indulgent. Many scenes feel out of place and just weird. The film doesn’t seem to know what game it’s playing: does it keep us on Oliver’s side, or are we to understand that he’s a fucking creep?
It’s not little snippets like Tyler Durden spliced into frame; it’s whole scenes like the “you’ll do if I can’t have Felix” makeout scene. This scene could be tragic and humiliating and make us side with Oliver; rather, he just seems to be a stiff, off-putting weirdo.
About halfway through the film, everything flips. Oh, wait–Oliver is a fucking creep. Then we’re just trying to see what happens, rooting for no one. Except perhaps that someone among the Cattons makes it out alive.
(That someone, apparently, is the cousin Farleigh, who simply disappears with no legitimate explanation. Sure he’s kicked out, but he was kicked out before and came back. Why wouldn’t he return by the end? We shall never know…)
At best, Saltburn is intellectually dishonest.
The “(relatively) poor person among the rich” thing has been done before. Obviously, on a certain level, this movie owes great debt to Patricia Highsmith and The Talented Mr Ripley.
The difference, however, is that Highsmith never acts clever, trying to Shyamalan her way into a character revelation: we know early on that Ripley is a pest, a con artist, and a bit of a loser.
Ripley’s impetuousness soon gets him in over his head and we are fascinated to see how far he can ride the lie without being caught out.
(Notably we get a similar dynamic as the Kim family digs themselves into a deeper hole in Parasite.)
Ripley is awkward and sloppy and erratic, but charming because we know he might fuck up at any moment and the suspense is in seeing how he doesn’t. Furthermore, Ripley is an underdog from the get-go; he comes from nothing and it’s fascinating to see him achieve, even in his own sociopathic way.
Oliver, on the other hand, is none of these things. He is cold, cruel, and calculating. He is not an unloved, poor orphan like Ripley; he is the product of a sweet, kind, loving, and reasonably affluent family.
This psychological makeup does not track with Oliver’s darker leanings. The reason that the second half of the film (after we find out that Oliver is lying about everything) is boring as shit is because there’s no suspense–except for the question as to whether Oliver wants to fuck Felix, the sister, the cousin, or the goddamn house.
One thing to pay special attention to: sure, there are a few comical jabs at Upper Class eccentricity. That does not mean the film in any way meaningfully calls the Upper Class out.
When you lay the plot on the table, the film is about a Middle Class sociopath who pretends to be working class for sympathy when he’s really trying to entrap, manipulate, and ultimately murder an Upper Class family to get their estate.
Some background might be relevant here: the film is written and directed by an Upper Class English woman whose family is undoubtedly much more similar to the Cattons than the Quicks.
Spoiler alert: Oliver is trying to fuck the house.
This is Fennell’s would-be headline: “Middle Class boy murders his way up the property ladder.” Now Fennell is a clever lady and I give her credit for consciously trolling the English Middle Class.* If Fennell didn’t troll consciously, she would do well to invest in a better therapist.
*Which, given their uniquely punchable combination of passive-aggressiveness and entitlement, is admittedly a fun pastime.
Why Saltburn doesn’t work:
1. The protagonist is a cipher:
Oliver is initially framed as poor, desperate, and seeking a place in the world. Then we realize he’s not. Basically he has no motive.
(Unless–wait for it–Middle Class people are inherently sociopathic social climbers.)
2. It’s performatively shocking, but emotionally hollow:
I drink your bathwater. I get my Red Wings from your sister. I jerk off your cousin. I penetrate your grave.
Sure, but to what end? There is neither logic nor emotion to these behaviors. What does any of it get Oliver? How does it push the plot forward?
3. The satire is aimed in the wrong direction:
Saltburn lets the Upper Class off with a slap on the wrist. They are too beautiful, they are bored at life, they are unthinkingly cruel. But it’s all done with a wink and a nod.
The real message is not subtle:
The film fucking shows us that the Middle Class would drink the Upper Class’ bathwater if given the slightest chance.
And, as Oliver (seemingly) fails, it is yet again punishment for trying. Farleigh actually tells Oliver this.
How to fix Saltburn:
1. Give Oliver an emotional emotional spine.
Oliver needs a why. A legitimate motivation or driving force would make him tragic, not simply creepy and sad.
2. Make the tone consistent.
The film blends gothic horror, satire, and drawing room comedy–with a strong dose of camp. It would be more helpful to pick one of these (with perhaps overtones of a second) and build around it–not to lurch from one tone to the next with every successive scene.
3. Let the rich be monsters.
The Cattons–with the mild exception of Farleigh–don’t really do anything bad. They seem more like innocent bystanders in the face of Oliver’s (unmotivated) class rage. We actually end up feeling quite sorry for them. (Contrast this with Dickie Greenleaf, where we don’t.)
Any good comedian knows that the way to get away with the most vicious, off-color jokes is to turn the punch line back on yourself. Fennell saved all the softballs for her own people.
With that in mind, Saltburn comes off as little more than mean-spirited given that it takes aim at one’s (ahem) inferiors. A better film would punch up–or at least sideways.
You want films that do class struggle in posh settings better? Just go to the classics Fennell ripped off: Highsmith’s Ripley (OMFG just read the book) and Joe Losey’s The Go-Between.
Steve Zaillian’s Ripley series is not without certain awkwardness, but Andrew Scott is such a monster actor that you let it slide: slimy and dangerous, but somehow cuddly. The writing, directing, and vibe is off the hook.
(Frankly, I think the Minghella one sort of loses steam after Dickie dies, although the Phil Hoffman scene is, naturally, great.)
Also: bonus points for checking out Ripley’s Game (which became Wim Wenders’ stellar The American Friend), where Ripley, now himself a made man, toys with a Middle Class man for sociopathic shits and giggles. And you still like Ripley.
3. The Substance (2024)
Billed as “feminist horror”–but it doesn’t seem to understand women or horror.
The Substance comes with a brilliant idea; the pitch itself has shitloads of feminist credibility.
A very attractive middle-aged woman is fired as she turns 50 (note that Moore was over 60 when the film was shot) and then mysteriously offered a way to become “younger, more desirable, more herself.”
This–particularly the irony in the ad copy–stacks up an excellent metaphor: how does being younger make you “more yourself?”
The premise invites questions about bodily autonomy (the body-switching is an excellent metaphor for this), ageism, beauty standards (particularly as women age), and of course the rage that naturally builds as women are exposed to such ridiculous standards.
There are notes of each of these things, but let’s be honest: the film doesn’t actually know what it wants to say. Instead of making a clever, incisive point, The Substance is a morass of contradictions.
Granted, I agree that Elisabeth feels conflicted about her situation and even knows that she’s making poor decisions. On occasion, the film plays this very well–notably the cringey-sad “date prep” scene.
Still, a lot of the motivation problem is glossed over because we feel sorry for Elisabeth–and to a much lesser degree, Sue–because all the men in the film are vulgar and shit.
As a man, I can confirm that men are in fact vulgar and shit. HOWEVER, exploiting this fact to paste over reasonable questions is cheap storytelling.
Let’s look at a few of the contradictions:
- Elisabeth wants to regain her role as a hyper-sexualized TV aerobics host, yet she also resents being objectified.
- Sue has all the character development of Wile E. Coyote; note her erratic, self-harming behavior. We never understand what makes Sue tick.
- Yes, the men suck. We get it. Why, then, are we supposed to like Sue–or Elisabeth, for that matter–as they behave even worse than the men?
Add to this the fact that the theme hits with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The problem, however, is that the theme is basically “women are treated unfairly as they get older; so be younger or die trying.” Yet Elisabeth is ultimately punished for her desire to “be more herself.”
There’s no middle way. No positive lesson. The film effectively throws its hands up in the air and says life’s unfair and you die if you try to change that. Yeah, maybe you could argue there’s some existential, Sartrean l’enfer, c’est les autres sort of message to it–it’s a French film, after all–but that’s a hell of a stretch.
Why The Substance fails:
1. Its premise doesn’t hold up to scrutiny.
It doesn’t make sense that Elisabeth would want to return to a system that disgusts, degrades, and devalues her. Likewise, if she seeks revenge on the system, it doesn’t make sense that–by Sue becoming , then struggling against Elisabeth to remain, the new sensation–she would become even more complicit.
2. It makes women look awful—for no clear reason.
Both Elisabeth and Sue–effectively the only female characters–are petty, jealous, and often toxic. It becomes little more than a cartoon struggle.
3. It forgets to be a story.
The story actually ends when Elisabeth dies at the end of the second act. The entire Monstro ElisaSue sequence is interesting for its visual effect, but hardly a story. It’s basically body horror, blood, and screaming.
I mean it’s kind of cool, but the entire final 40 minutes of the film are little more than a music video-style epilogue (without music).
How to fix The Substance:
1. Make Elisabeth’s motivation consistent.
It’s really unclear whether Elisabeth wants to tear down the system or rejoin it. Given that these motivations are at cross-purposes, it’s jarring to the audience to whiplash back and forth between them.
That is, if Elisabeth craves Sue’s celebrity (and therefore lets Sue live)–it is not clear on the conflicting motivations. Or, for that matter, how Elisabeth benefits from Sue getting the attention (something that is also never explored).
Pick one and run with it.
2. Let the younger self be some version of Elisabeth.
One would assume, prima facie, that Sue is a version of Elisabeth, but she plays as a totally different character: some sort of random sociopath taking up residence in the body of a younger Elisabeth.
Sue could easily be conflicted or confused or tormented. Rather, she’s basically little more than a sketch: hotness in a syringe, a soulless aesthetic.
3. Clarify the metaphor.
It’s not clear precisely what the film is trying to say. It could be about beauty standards, a “modern Prometheus” take à la Frankenstein. A critique of how the Male Gaze affects women. Elements related to all of these are addressed, but the focus changes scene-to-scene.
Putting my cards on the table, I think Coralie Fargeat is a talented filmmaker. I actually enjoyed The Substance. I really enjoyed Revenge.
One thing that Fargeat does brilliantly (unless you count the final act of The Substance) is pace her films so that they are never boring. She is a master of dread, horror (particularly body horror), and cringe.
It’s just a shame that The Substance could have been all the brilliant things it was–yet left so much–like a coherent message, even for all the shouting–on the table.
You want films that do female-gaze body horror better? Check out Julia Ducournau’s Raw or Titane.
Ambition Is Not the Same as Execution
These are three movies that had no dearth of talent or potential. All three could have beenthree of these films had everything going for them:
- Donnie Darko: A starmaking lead role, an undeniably eerie vibe, and amazing visuals.
- Saltburn: Unique settings, (first act aside) impressive cinematography, the potential for biting satire, and an impressive young cast on the cusp of megastardom.
- The Substance: Pertinent, important ideas, social relevance, stylish direction, mind-blowing visuals, and two balls-to-the-wall lead performances.
Ultimately, however, all of them squander the potential. In each case, the boldness is betrayed by an ultimate lack of coherence.
The result is simply noise.
Let me reiterate: these are not bad films. But the fact that they are great films manqués makes them all the more tragic.
As a screenwriter a great premise is only the beginning. A timeless script still needs:
- Clear character motivation
- Emotional weight behind decisions
- Consistent themes – either pick one or make sure they feed off of each other
- An ending that derives naturally from its setup
Give your film the credit its boldness deserves and clean up the fucking story while you’re at it.