Overview
When gallery owner Susan (Amy Adams) first rifles through a manuscript penned by her ex-husband Edward (Jake Gyllenhaal), the pages draw blood. Her finger bleeds from a simple paper cut, but another, unseen wound also opens — one caused by her actions 19 years earlier, that she thought her now-strained second marriage to the wealthy Hutton (Armie Hammer) had healed. Already an insomniac and riddled with stress about her latest exhibition opening, she's drawn to the dark tale told found within those pages. There, a man by the name of Tony (also played by Gyllenhaal) finds his family holiday with his wife (Isla Fisher) and daughter (Ellie Bamber) interrupted by Texan troublemakers (including Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Karl Glusman).
Before long, the story segues from road rage terror to nightmarish tragedy to an account of violence that can only be solved with more of the same. As Susan reads, ravenously leafing through the novel at any moment that she can, it inspires memories of her younger, happier days with Edward. That's the film's second narrative within a narrative, one in which Susan earns the disapproval of her mother (Laura Linney) by wedding a writer of little means, and then struggles as their married bliss inevitably falters. And so Nocturnal Animals becomes a nesting doll of pain, heartbreak, betrayal, sorrow and, eventually, revenge.
Alluring exteriors hide ugly depths on multiple levels. The film constantly juxtaposes beauty and horror; an opening sequence is filled with fleshy, scantily clad women dancing in a cloud of glitter. Who better than director Tom Ford to usher audiences into such a seductive, psychologically complex world? Nocturnal Animals is a bolder, blunter and more brutal movie than the fashion designer turned filmmaker's first effort behind the lens, A Single Man. In adapting Austin Wright's 1993 novel Tony and Susan, the writer-director proves that he still knows how to provoke a reaction.
Still, where A Single Man heaved with emotion as it bewitched the eye, Nocturnal Animals seethes with emptiness. As shot by cinematographer Seamus McGarvey, the film's glossy visuals feel like vacant vessels, styled meticulously, and yet never containing more than the obvious. In a pulpy, throwaway thriller, that's fine, but Ford aims much higher than that. Ensuring that his feature wears his clear influences, from Alfred Hitchcock and Brian de Palma to David Lynch and Douglas Sirk, prominently on its impeccably dressed sleeves, he strives to craft a sensual, suspenseful exploration of regret, and the aches that mistakes can bring. Sadly, he comes up short.
The cast of the work is expectedly first-rate, from the glassy-eyed Adams to the increasingly frantic Gyllenhaal to the ever-stellar, scene-stealing Michael Shannon as a cop helping Tony seek justice. Some play real characters within the world of the film, while others are literary manifestations of decades worth of pain. But then if there's one thing that Ford excels at as much as making his features look stunning, it's casting. Everyone's performance is perfectly pitched, which is perhaps why the overall lack of feeling behind the film's luxurious facade feels so very disappointing.
