You would think that a show on MAX (still can’t believe they went with that over HBO) and produced by A24 with top level production values would, on some level, be worth at least some mixed reviews, if not better. But despite getting a lengthy standing ovation at Cannes (where I guess they will stand and cheer public executions), as soon as critics laid eyes on the premiere of The Idol, the knives were out before they could be sharpened.
And I get it. For all its glossy production, namecheckable cast, and the full might of the best production company behind it (seriously, just wiki A24 and see all the amazing work they’ve created), this thing is the hottest of hot messes. For a moment, I thought The Idol was the biggest artistic misfire since Showtime’s reboot of American Gigolo (poor Jon Bernthal deserved so much better), but then I realized that I was being unfair to that misguided disaster. Because The Idol is truly a one of a kind unnatural disaster.
I must say, while I’m not at all a fan of Sam Levinson’s claim to fame, Euphoria, I respect that other people who really know their stuff think differently. And, being a bit of a pop music nut, I had higher hopes for The Idol. Hell, I’m even a big fan of The Weeknd…musically. I’m not sure who Abel Tesfaye’s acting coach is, but he should probably be fired along with whoever thought it was a good idea to have him wear a rat tail (that look was hideous in the ‘80s—I know, I was there).
At this point you might be thinking that I’m going to completely join the torch and pitchfork crowd and really give The Idol a flaming skewering, but you know what, I’m not going to do that. Not exactly anyway.
Why? Because there was real potential here, and you can see glimpses of it between the moments when you feel like rushing to the shower to clean the show off of you. The opening of The Idol is actually pretty fabulous. It begins with a tight close up on Lily-Rose Depp’s face (playing a Britney Spears-like pop star named Jocelyn) vamping during a photo shoot. Her face fills the entire frame as she’s asked to go through a series of looks from sad to doe-eyed to sexual, and she nails every one.
Things take a turn soon after as Jocelyn decides to expose her breasts even though there’s a no nudity rider in the contract for the photo shoot. This sets off a frenzy of activity with the sole purpose of making sure Jocelyn gets what she wants. The problem here is that the exposure and the ensuing discussion feels more like the show’s creator wanting to give horny straight men what they want. As if to double down on that idea, during the shoot, an image of Jocelyn goes viral of her having completed…I’m not even going to say it. Let’s just say a lot of time is spent trying to get the image taken down.
Now, there might have been a way to do both of the things in the previous paragraph in a way that one could take seriously, but the show’s tone is so cynical that it just seems exploitative. Why did I say “seems”? It is exploitative. And look, I’m no prude by any means—I think there should be more sexuality in film and TV, but this? This is skeevy. A notion that I think would be hard for anyone to argue, especially when they show the photo.
After all the sturm und drang of the photo shoot and the viral image, Jocelyn largely shrugs off both incidents and hits a glitzy club owned by Tedros (Tesfaye/The Weeknd) where he instantly seduces her on the dance floor with some of the most ridiculous dialogue you’ve ever heard (“You fit perfectly in my arms”). They then retreat to a back stairwell where they suffer coitus interruptus at the hands of Jocelyn’s assistant. For some reason, instead of retiring to a different location to meet their, um, needs, Jocelyn instead goes home, plants herself on her couch, and then masturbates while choking herself. Yeah, it’s that kind of show.
But the real coup de grace, comes later when Jocelyn connects with Tedros again (the show appears to be setting up Tedros as her Svengali, which seems insane, but hey Brittney married Kevin Federline, so what do I know?) and he takes off her robe, puts it over her face, takes the robe’s tie, wraps it around Jocelyn’s throat, and then takes a knife, tells her to open her mouth, and then cuts a hole through the fabric, and says, “Now you can sing.” It’s the most rapey fantasy sequence I’ve seen in any production that wouldn’t be shown in a theater with very sticky floors.
Why does Tedros do this? Because, through this bizarre act, he’s trying to tell her that she doesn’t sing her new song like she “knows how to fuck.” Some shit, you cannot make up, and The Idol is just that shit. The funny thing is the best line in the movie comes just before the whole robe-masking fiasco. While explaining to Jocelyn that the song sounds like a hit, but it’s missing her full investment in the vocal, Jocelyn suggests that it’s just pop music. To which Tedros replies, “Pop music is like the ultimate Trojan Horse. You get people to dance, you get people to sing along, you can say whatever you want.” If only the show had used that idea as its template. Instead, The Idol largely seems to be an excuse to put Depp in various states of undress and sexual danger.
And look, Depp may not feel exploited in the slightest. In fact, in the mini-doc that airs right after the show, she couldn’t seem more comfortable and enthusiastic about playing Jocelyn. I can recall many years ago Roger Ebert saying that one of the issues he had with Blue Velvet is he felt that David Lynch’s direction of Isabella Rossellini was sexually humiliating. Rossellini never bought Ebert’s rationale and neither did I. But there’s a difference here: however talented Sam Levinson may be, he’s no David Lynch. Not by a long shot. As the ubiquitous ‘they’ say, execution is everything. Lynch could execute.
The truly frustrating thing about the show is there’s more than a germ of a good idea here. Taking on the superficial nature of (some) pop music, the darker side of the music industry, and the perils of fame is ripe with possibility. There’s some good acting here too. You can see the potential in Depp, Jane Adams is terrific, and Da’Vine Joy Randolph is an absolute hoot, but that’s not nearly enough to make up for all the (((waves at everything))). There’s a reason why schlockmeister Eli Roth has a part in this show. He’s basically a symbol of what the show is: sleazy schlock, only polished up to a high sheen.
The funny thing is the show is so handsomely produced, and not without the attributes which I’ve already mentioned, that I can’t say that it’s unwatchable. But if you do watch it, you may hate yourself in the morning. Or, more likely, as soon as the credits roll.
I will say this, I’ve never seen anything like The Idol. I guess that’s…something?
