The wrong car going the right way.

Jamie drinks like someone who knows the punchline to a joke everyone else in the bar hasn’t heard yet, and Tilda treats earnestness like a communicable disease. Together, they’re a mess of mutual damage, unapologetic libido, and road movie swagger, careening through Drive-Away Dolls with the kind of amoral charm that reminds you that noir-adjacent chaos always had more to offer than trench coats and fedora brims.

When Jamie (Qualley), a commitment-averse livewire with a self-sabotaging streak, finds herself unceremoniously dumped yet again, she decides it’s time for a change of scenery. Dragging along her more restrained and recently heartbroken best friend Tilda (Viswanathan), the two set off on a road trip to Tallahassee in a drive-away rental vehicle meant for someone else entirely. Unbeknownst to them, the car’s boot is hiding a package of interest to some very dangerous people and what starts as an impulsive attempt to outrun their problems quickly turns into a twisting escapade involving inept goons, cryptic agendas, and a lot more heat than either of them signed up for.

Ethan Coen’s solo outing plays like a queered-up love letter to the pulpy grit of yesteryear, cracked open and stuffed with Gen Z irreverence. It understands that noir’s true core isn’t just shadows and cynicism, but transgression – and here, that transgression is decidedly sapphic, playfully profane, and occasionally plotted by people whose idea of secrecy is yelling “Don’t tell anyone” in a parking lot. Margaret Qualley plays Jamie with twitchy, off-kilter energy – less femme fatale, more femme ferale – while Geraldine Viswanathan’s Tilda tries to keep pace with a kind of buttoned-up panic that only gets funnier the more her moral compass starts spinning. Through it all, Jamie and Tilda remain locked in their own prickly orbit, circling one another with a mix of familiarity, friction, and something neither of them is quite ready to name.

The film owes as much to Elmore Leonard and Russ Meyer as it does to classic noir-adjacent storytelling, swerving between sun-drenched sleaze and absurdist detours that should derail everything but instead keep it humming along like a stolen car with just enough petrol to get to the next bad decision. Its tone, always two seconds away from a knowing wink, never wavers into parody. It plays it straight – or at least, queer-straight – and that lets the jokes land with a sharpness that cuts past pastiche.

Coen directs with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s skewering and exactly why he still loves it. The MacGuffin is nonsense, obviously, but glorious nonsense, and the supporting cast – Pedro Pascal, Colman Domingo, and a perfectly barbed Beanie Feldstein – lean into the pulp with gusto, like they’ve all been handed the same lurid paperback and told to find the sleaziest line to quote out loud.

But the real strength lies in how the film wears its queerness: not as provocation or tokenism, but as architecture. These aren’t subversions so much as reclamations. Jamie and Tilda aren’t exceptions to noir-adjacent convention – they are the convention, just finally allowed to own it. Their sexuality is part of the story’s DNA, not a sidebar. And it’s telling that the film’s emotional climax isn’t a confession or a shootout, but a moment of silent recognition between two people who know they’ve seen the worst of each other and decided to stay in the car anyway.

Drive-Away Dolls may be a short ride at 84 minutes, but it’s lean in the way good crime fiction should be – no wasted motion, no sentimentality, just sharp dialogue, stupid crooks, horny detours, and the creeping realisation that the only thing more dangerous than the people chasing you might be the person riding shotgun. It’s not just a welcome return to the Coen wheelhouse, it’s a reminder that crime capers don’t have to be nostalgic to be potent. Sometimes they just needs to get a little lost, a little drunk, and a little dirty.