It’s one of the stranger footnotes in the annals of American true crime: In 1978, a decade into cross-country reign of terror and still a year away from finally being caught, serial killer Rodney Alcala was a contestant on The Dating Game. “Bachelor No. 3” managed to impress the episode’s bachelorette, Chery Bradshaw, enough to win an an all-expense trip to Carmel, California, with her. A conversation after the show convinced Bradshaw that maybe she should pass on the opportunity to spend further time with someone who, television-friendly charm or not, was a walking, talking red flag. May we be so bold as to say: Wise move.
A serial killer thriller, a Seventies’ kitsch-fest, a catalog of vintage sexism doused in irony, the impressive directorial debut of Anna Kendrick and the latest Netflix movie to grace your “because you watched Monster: The Lyle and Erik Menendez Story” algorithm — Woman of the Hour is a lot of things. But what this unsettling, undeniably compelling look back at an odd collision of psychopathy and pop culture is getting at beneath its paisley-patterned decor goes beyond just one mass murderer and a lot of skeezy game-show innuendos. Alcala was not an anomaly in terms of the decade’s predators who went from town to town, hiding behind artistic pursuits (he often used photography to lure victims to where he’d sexually assault and kill them) and a superficially sympathetic persona in order to indulge a pathology. Yet he also wasn’t an anomaly in terms of men whose egos bruised easily and who could turn from engaged to enraged if a woman said the “wrong” thing. The movie isn’t really about the sociopath who did these things. It’s about the society that allowed him to keep doing them. But first, a word from our sponsor!
Working from a script by Ian Macdonald, Kendrick establishes Alcala (Daniel Zovatto) as a free-floating threat from the get-go, offering snippets of several different crime scenes spanning between 1971 and 1979. In Wyoming, a pregnant woman named Sarah (Kelly Jakle) is strangled while Alcala photographs her in a remote stretch of the countryside. He then revives her with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and rapes her. In New York, a stewardess named Charlie (Kathryn Gallagher) asks Alcala to help her move some furniture into her apartment, and meets a grisly end; she’s based on Cornelia Crilley, who authorities believe was one of his earliest victims. In Los Angeles, a young runaway named Amy (Autumn Best) accepts an offer to be the subject of a shoot in the desert out of desperation, and manages to survive the encounter by feigning embarrassment and acting as if they’re a couple. Like her real-life counterpart Monique Hoyt, she’ll catch a lucky break at a rural gas station.
In between these disturbing interludes, Kendrick does double duty as Bradshaw and shows us what a woman of the 1970s had to endure on a daily basis. A struggling actor trying to break into the biz, she’s become used to men discussing the attributes of other females during her auditions. She balks at doing nude scenes, only to be assured that “they’re fine” as one of the interviewers gestures towards her chest. An overly friendly, boundary-less neighbor (Pete Holmes) keeps offering unsolicited advice; when he becomes wounded and pouty after Bradshaw is surprised by him brushing her cheek, she sleeps with him out of a sense of politeness. The Oscar-nominated actor has always been the sort of screen performer who seems to work especially well in close-ups, where the camera can catch how the subtlest eye movements or smallest recalibrations of expressions can signal her reading the room and reacting accordingly. You see Bradshaw having to constantly adjust to make sure that men don’t get their feelings hurt, are never given the sense that they are somehow inadequate. Otherwise, they may get moody. Or worse.
Bradshaw isn’t exactly jumping for joy when her agent tells her she’s nabbed her client a TV spot and it turns out to be a game show. Still, a gig’s a gig, and a lady doesn’t want to ruffle feathers. All she has to do, according to the buttery-smooth blowhard of a host (Tony Hale, having the time of his life) is not be brainy onstage. Intelligence — it’s so threatening to guys! Also, he says, change your dress. Show off that figure of yours, sweetie.
Daniel Zovatto in ‘Woman of the Hour.’
Leah Gallo/Netflix
Having set up the parallel paths of the woman of the hour and the killer on the road, the movie now pairs them for their mutual date with destiny. And like Bradshaw — who is encouraged by the women on The Dating Game‘s set to ignore that taming-of-the-shrewd bullshit — Woman of the Hour isn’t afraid to play it smart. There’s not a moment when we do not register Alcala as both cunning and frightening, with every eloquent answer and seemingly harmless exchanges giving you the sensation of noose being slyly tightened by millimeters. As Bradshaw starts going off-script, much to the chagrin of the dim-witted Bachelor No. 1 and the sleazy Bachelor No. 2, you sense the undercurrent of menace thrumming under every playful back-and-forth. All of it pays off in two sequences that take place after the broadcast wraps: a casual post-show conversation at a tiki bar in which Bradshaw slowly realizes who’s lurking beneath that nice-guy mask; and a walk back to her car that turns into a minimalist exercise in catch-and-release pursuit. The latter is also a great example of how well Kendrick has taken to working behind the camera, as she uses space, camera movements, the full length of the frame and some expert cutting and pacing to ratchet up tension. Please welcome to the stage Anne Kendrick, Genre Auteur!
Yet Alcala simply the most toxic example of something else, something that seems somehow invisible yet unavoidable, percolating even during the most innocuous moments. Right before the show begins, Woman of the Hour introduces a peripheral character played by Nicolette Robinson, who’s attending the taping with her boyfriend. She immediately recognizes Bachelor No. 3 and freaks out. After regaining her composure, she asks to speak to The Dating Game‘s producer and soon becomes the butt of a cruel joke. Further inquiries to the police lead nowhere. Do your fucking job, she screams at the hapless cop — it’s the second time in the film we’ve seen the futility of living in a man, man, man, man, man’s world turn into unbridled female rage. The movie has allowed us to feel sickened and squeamish at the murder sequences, and superior to the outrageous examples of Seventies chauvinism on display. But the more everyday scenes of women being marginalized, dismissed, patronized, objectified, and altogether ignored feel far more insidious. Sexism was not part of the culture when this prolific serial killer managed to elude authorities for close to a dozen years. Sexism was the culture. And we’re not so sure we should be utilizing the past tense here.
