Blink Twice , Zoë Kravitz’s buzzy directorial debut, opens with lush, confident seduction. The starry-eyed Frida (Naomi Ackie), a cash-strapped cater-waiter who yearningly scrolls Instagram in her dingy bathroom, catches the eye of handsome tech entrepreneur Slater King (Kravitz’s real-life fiance Channing Tatum, in full charisma mode) at a ritzy gala; he summarily whisks her and her down-with-it best friend Jess (Alia Shawkat) to his private tropical island along with a private jet’s worth of hangers-on. The ostensible goal of the trip is to party – drink all day, lounge by the pool, soak up the sun, suck the marrow out of life.
You cannot trust a billionaire, but why not enjoy the spoils? Kravitz, who co-wrote the film with ET Feigenbaum, similarly relishes in the sensory pleasures of this thriller’s set-up. She emphasizes each sound and color, like jungle prey hyper-attuned to sensation – every heavy-handed flash of red catches the eye, every crackle of a vape and pop of fresh champagne hits the inner ear. The white of the (dubiously) house-provided bikinis and linens are striking against the verdant landscape.
Even the obviously symbolic snakes are as alluring as they are sinister. Of course, not everything is as tranquil as it seems. Blink Twice, with its pounding, ominous score, makes that clear from the jump.
The propulsive question is exactly what is wrong, and how Frida – and, by extension, we – will discover it. Blink Twice – which I keep acciden.