Forgive and forget becomes fight or flight in Kravitz’ blistering directorial debut
Like a too-good-to-be-true invitation to a billionaire’s private island, Blink Twice lures you in with its promise of sunlit shores and champagne-soaked afternoons, only to slowly, methodically peel back the layers of its pristine exterior to reveal a world where power and privilege festers unchecked and repression is used to excuse oppression and exploitation. Zoë Kravitz, in her audacious directorial debut, crafts a tale that seduces and unsettles in equal measure, a disquieting cocktail of psychological tension and social commentary.
Blink Twice introduces us to Frida (Naomi Ackie), a cocktail waitress whose life takes an unexpected turn when she’s invited to the secluded island estate of tech mogul Slater King (Channing Tatum), a man who’s only recently returned to public life following a scandal that required him to take time out to work on himself. But what begins as a dream escape quickly spirals into a disturbingly discordant experience as Frida becomes increasingly aware that the island, and its charismatic host, aren’t everything they appear to be. As the days blur into nights filled with lavish parties and whispered conversations, Frida finds herself trapped in a nightmare where nothing is as it seems, and dark and dangerous secrets lurk behind every indulgent facade.
As co-writer and director, Kravitz’s vision is clear from the outset: this is no simple thriller, but rather a slow-burn exploration of power, privilege, and the psychological scars they leave in their wake. The island setting, with its sun-drenched beauty, serves as a stark contrast to the creeping dread that permeates almost every frame. The opulent surroundings are captured with a precision that feels almost clinical, a beautiful honey trap designed to ensnare both Frida and the audience in its gilded web.
As Blink Twice unfolds, Kravitz skilfully builds tension through a series of increasingly unsettling but individually potentially innocuous events, each one chipping away at the veneer of safety that surrounds the characters. The interplay of light and shadow, both literal and metaphorical, is masterful, creating an atmosphere of unease that is difficult to shake, even after the credits roll. Every frame is laden with meaning, every shot carefully constructed to draw the viewer deeper into the island’s insidious illusion.
Ackie’s powerhouse performance anchors the experience, of course, but each member of the ensemble plays their part, with Tatum especially demonstrating that when given the right material, he’s capable of so much more than the goofy action-comedy hunk he’s made his stock in trade. King’s entourage is pitch perfect too, with Christian Slater, Haley Joel Osment, Kyle MacLachlan and Simon Rex perfectly curating the toxic masculinity in nice guy clothing duplicity that lies at the heart of this psychotic psychological thriller. But this isn’t their film and it’s Naomi Ackie, Adria Arjona, Alia Shawkat and the wonderfully inscrutable María Elena Olivares who dominate the film.
Yet, for all its meticulous crafting, Blink Twice does stumble a little as it nears its conclusion. After a masterful build-up, the finale arrives with a speed that feels almost jarring, as though the film itself is racing towards an end it hasn’t quite allowed enough time for. This abrupt shift in pacing causes a cascade of important revelations to concertina together, their potential not fully realised in the rush to wrap up the story. It’s a minor flaw, for sure, but one that stands out in a film that otherwise takes its time to carefully construct its world, a White Lotus that dares to go darker than that series has even dreamed of.
Ultimately, Blink Twice is a film that lingers long after the screen goes dark. It’s a bold, unsettling debut from a director unafraid to confront uncomfortable truths, in an unflinching way. It’s so much more than just another excoriation of excessive privilege, carving out its own niche in the understandably burgeoning “eat the rich” sub-genre, offering a perspective that is as much about the psychological toll of power as it is about its excesses. While it shares thematic DNA with films like Get Out and Triangle of Sadness, Kravitz’s film feels more intimate, more interested in the internal than the external, in the quiet horrors that lurk behind closed doors, both metaphorical and physical.
