I watched Tom Ford’s Nocturnal Animals alone and stoned late one Friday night in a mostly empty theater—a move that didn’t end well for me. Not only did I start feeling profoundly anxious within fifteen minutes, but a sickening dread stayed with me for the rest of the night, and I endured a fitful, unpleasant sleep. I’d like to say that this was testament to the film’s emotional power, but I suspect that my unease was the result of the outright grimness of the storyline and its arguably fucked-up message—coupled, of course, with some inadvertently potent edibles.

 

First, a positive: It looks great. But that’s no surprise. Tom Ford has a designer’s eye, and his A Single Man proved he could make scenes look and feel as elegantly composed as a well-made suit. Nocturnal Animals doesn’t lack for striking visuals, like a memorable opening sequence in which fat, naked women in Majorette hats dance proudly in slow motion in front of red velvet drapery amid a flurry of confetti. Unfortunately, this is one of the best things in the whole film, and its immaculate appearance merely leaves you with the frustrating feeling of having been deceived. It’s so good to look at that it gives the impression of saying a great deal, when it’s actually as shallow as the world it tries to condemn.

 

Susan (Amy Adams) is a successful gallery owner (the naked dancing women are in fact part of her latest smash hit exhibition). She is as stifled and miserable as they are exuberant and uninhibited. And, in case the message is a little too subtle, her stern makeup, expensive wardrobe, and alarmingly rigid hair make her look physically constricted—a sophisticated corpse—as do the sharp, polished features of her fancy house. How could she possibly be so depressed and repressed with all the success and the glamor? Cue handsome husband, cold and aloof, who didn’t come to her show, is leaving on yet another business trip, and is having financial problems. It’s almost as though the rich and beautiful, who seem to have it all, could really be deeply dissatisfied and unhappy… And, lest we still not get it, she goes to a party and tells her friends all about how none of it means anything, and what’s the damn point. Ok, got it! What’s next?

 

She receives a manuscript from Edward! Edward, we swiftly discover, was her first husband, and the manuscript itself is menacing, delivering a paper cut that she acts as though is the most baffling thing ever. Her overreaction to a paper cut isn’t without purpose, however, clearing the way for some clunky exposition when she gets her butler to read the letter aloud to her: Edward has written a book, would love for her to read it and for them to meet for dinner in a few days.  The book is dedicated to her, and its title, we later discover, is derived from his old nickname for her: “nocturnal animal.” Intrigued, she settles down to read Edward’s book, and we watch the story unfold as she visualizes it, interspersed with scenes from both the present day and flashbacks of her bygone romance with Edward.

 

In the book, Tony (Jake Gyllenhall) embarks on a west Texas road trip with his wife (Isla Fisher, whose resemblance to Adams is no accident) and their daughter. They are run off the road at night by a violent gang of three, who toy with the frightened family before kidnapping the women. Tony manages to escape and find help the next morning, in the form of drawling, wiry Detective Andes (Michael Shannon). The wife and daughter are found raped and murdered, and Andes promises to help the devastated and guilt-stricken Tony to bring the gang to justice.

 

Meanwhile, in the flashbacks, we watch Susan and Edward fall madly in love as rosy-cheeked twenty-somethings, but learn that things do not end so rosily. “I did something…unforgivable,” present-day Susan tells her assistant. Edward is a highly sensitive and earnest wannabe writer. Susan is driven, forthright, and pragmatic, though in denial about it, equating these qualities with being a snooty, joyless nightmare: “All girls turn into their mothers,” Laura Linney imperiously tells her, sporting pearls and a stupid bouffant so that we understand just how dreadful such a fate is. In the tired old narrative of uptight women being saved from themselves by freespirited men, Edward resents her criticisms and keeps telling her that, at heart, she’s a directionless artist too, and to chill out on her ambitions and high standards. Essentially, he’s the romantic, and she’s the sellout. The relationship falls apart.  

 

In the present day, Susan reads Edward’s book as though it’s the most gripping and powerful thing imaginable, losing sleep to read it, retreating increasingly into her memories of Edward—because a vapid book full of violence against women reminds her what a catch he really was. She clickclacks through her house and gallery, exchanging bitter quips with other absurdly groomed, unhappy women.

 

Eventually all the pieces clunk miserably into place: In the book, Tony dies while exacting murderous revenge on the gang leader. We learn that young Susan left Edward to be with the man who is now her philandering husband and had an abortion to boot. Finally, Susan goes to meet Edward for the dinner he’d proposed, visibly vulnerable and excited. We see her sitting alone at the restaurant, smile fading as she nurses her second drink, embarrassment and profound sadness spreading across her face as she realizes that Edward has stood her up. Fin.

 

This ending was the subject of debate over its supposed ambiguity, some viewers positing that Edward has killed himself. But if the film’s set-up is supposed to be consistent with its finale, then it’s clear that the ending was simply the final stage of a petty mindfuck intended to punish Susan for her “unforgivable” behavior twenty-odd years ago. It goes something like this: Pull a ghost-of-Christmas-past move with the silly book it took you over twenty years to finish; prove that you are now the successful writer she always wanted you to be (if only she’d been patient and waited two more decades!); name and dedicate the thing to make it personal, guaranteeing she’ll see herself and her real-life daughter in the book; murder Susan’s proxy, and her daughter’s; then twist the knife by standing her up, letting her know she can now lie in the lonely, empty bed she made for herself. Yeah, that’ll show her.

 

Is it Susan’s guilt that casts Edward in the role of Tony and lookalikes of herself and her daughter in the roles of the raped and murdered women? Sure. But that’s Edward’s intention. After all, we’re reminded of the book as a weapon of vengeance, from the paper cut it inflicts, to a painting that literally is stamped with the word “REVENGE,” in front of which Susan hallucinates the book’s main villain—a sign of the manuscript’s horrors spilling over into her life. We’re encouraged to find parallels between book and reality, images fading in and out to show doubles. Tony’s revenge arc in the book, we are therefore supposed to infer, is mirrored in Edwards’s real-life revenge against Susan.

 

So, essentially, this is the story of a woman, already down and struggling with the life choices she’s made, taught a bitter lesson by an ex-boyfriend. Truth is, if I were Edward, I’d likely hold a grudge as well, but it’s pretty hard to stomach a film which punishes a woman for choosing stability over a man with whom she was unhappy, and for deciding against having his child, particularly when the man is allowed to soar—in this case as a successful author in real life, and as a martyr in the book, his quest complete, his cowardice redeemed.

 

“All you need is love” is a simplistic and hackneyed lesson, and particularly objectionable when it’s snarled at you so aggressively. It doesn’t help that, on top of everything else, it’s impossible to care about such thinly rendered characters, whose inner thoughts are revealed in lifeless dialogue. The closest thing resembling an interesting character is Detective Andes, who thankfully gets a few good lines in.

 

There’s also enjoyment to be derived from the scenery. The dark, cool interiors of the present day have an almost sci-fi sleekness to them, which contrasts well with the grit and vintage Americana of the desert scenes of the book.

 

But those visual elements serve merely as a frustrating reminder of how shallow a film it is, not to mention how misogynistic. I certainly don’t believe it was intentional, but it does go to show how prevalent the punitive treatment of imperfect women is in mainstream film. We have made big strides in depicting female characters who are often cynical and unlikeable, and are allowed to remain so, without being saved or punished by a man. Nocturnal Animals is a toxic step backwards.