Films about the excessive self-indulgence of showbiz tend to tilt towards a moralistic viewpoint camouflaged in high-octane hedonism. In Trey Edward Shults’s wound-up, weird wallop at arrogant wickedness, the first quarter of storytelling and the rest are entirely two different worlds.
In the initial 15–20 minutes, we see the musician superstar Abel (played by Abel Tesfaye, also known as The Weeknd) falling apart after his sudden breakup with his loyal girlfriend who just ups, leaves a voicemail, and leaves one day (listen to the voice on the voicemail, it is Elvis Presley’s granddaughter Riley Keough).
I like Abel’s raging disbelief at the unexpected desertion: how dare she leave HIM, the master of the stage?! Abel’s able but over-pushy manager Lee (Barry Keoghan) doesn’t help the situation by reminding Abel that he is “NOT human” (reminded me of the ‘Aap purush nahin, mahapurush ho’ gag in Andaz Apna Apna).
Pushed to perform in his distraught state, Abel goes on stage and freezes.
Thus begins the second, far less unputdownable movement in the plot where Abel meets a fan on the road. I wish he had seen Rob Reiner’s Misery. Abel would know how dangerous an obsessive fan could be. Ignoring all the red flags, Abel accompanies the fan Anima (the wonderful Jenna Ortega) on a night of infantile and carnal pleasures.
It has to end in disaster. It does. After Abel rebuffs Anima’s clingy aspirations, she gets psychotic and violent. The second movement of the plot is defined entirely by the screenwriter’s appetite for psychedelic fantasy.
There is a lengthy sequence of Abel’s descent into an unconscious hell with ghouls and creepy monsters intercepting his journey into fitful sleep. This could have been sacrificed on the editing table without making a difference to the storytelling.
More horrors happen, including the sudden appearance and disappearance of Abel’s manager (what is Barry Keoghan, so brilliant in Saltburn, doing playing such an underwritten character?). The crank finale features Abel tied to the bed while Anima dances wildly to Abel’s chartbuster songs.
The singing jamboree is topped by Abel dolorously singing his signature tune ‘Hurry, Up Tomorrow.’ Here, the uneasy marriage of fame and desperation is effectively played out.
I like the opening and the closure. But some of what comes in-between is not thought out to its culmination and therefore seems unfinished. I also like the principal performances. Musician Abel Tesfaye (a.k.a. The Weeknd) conveys the self-consuming introspection of a superstar. But it is Jenna Ortega’s stalker who has you wondering why fans of musicians and stars tend to trip into the abyss.
