106 min | R | January 29, 2021 | Netflix
A director and his girlfriend come home from his premiere, and the celebration curdles into an all-night fight about who owns the story he just turned into a movie. Two people who love each other take turns aiming for the soft spots. The performances are real. The screenplay is a grudge.
Malcolm and Marie come home from his film premiere. He is a director riding the high of a successful screening. She is the woman whose addiction story he mined for the movie without thanking her. Sam Levinson stages a single night of escalating combat between two people who love each other and know exactly where to cut. The film wants to be a chamber drama about art, ownership, and credit. It is really an argument about whether a man can build his career on someone else’s pain and still claim the work as his own.
John David Washington plays Malcolm as a man who cannot stop talking. He delivers monologues about authenticity and critics with the energy of someone performing for an audience that is not in the room. The longer he speaks the smaller he becomes. Zendaya plays Marie with stillness that does more damage than any of his speeches. She holds her wounds close and releases them with precision, watching Malcolm dig his own grave one sentence at a time. The two trade the upper hand across the night, and the chemistry between them makes the cruelty feel earned.
Sam Levinson writes and directs, and his fingerprints are everywhere in the worst way. The black-and-white cinematography by Marcell Rev is the strongest element, framing the glass-walled house in long tracking shots that let the actors move through their fights without cuts to hide behind. The camera circles the couple as they circle each other. The problem is the script. Levinson uses Malcolm to deliver a long rant against a critic from the Los Angeles Times, and the scene plays as the filmmaker settling his own scores through his lead.
The result is a showcase that mistakes volume for depth. The performances are real and the craft is controlled, but the writing keeps pulling focus back to its author’s grievances. Malcolm and Marie deserve a film about their relationship. Instead they are handed a film about how their maker feels about being reviewed.