Anna Kendrick’s ‘Woman of the Hour’ Offers A Chilling Testament to Survival and Intuition
By Natalie McCarty
There’s an unnerving quiet to Anna Kendrick’s Woman of the Hour, a suspenseful dive into charm’s dark, manipulative edges and the snap-second decisions that stand between life and death. In her bold directorial debut, Kendrick steers clear of sensationalism to bring a slow-burning thriller, retelling the real-life horror of 1978 when serial killer Rodney Alcala appeared—and won—on The Dating Game. But her film isn’t a gory true-crime retelling. Instead, Kendrick crafts a narrative about survival, instinct, and the eerie power of playing along with what the patriarchy demands of women.
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It’s a feeling too many women know well: a twisted sense of obligation, the heavy need to appease, even to a stranger. The unshakable dread that comes when a man at the bar ignores subtle cues, or a rideshare driver pries a little too deeply into your personal life. Not because these interactions demand politeness, but because failing to play along just might have consequences. Kendrick, who stars as Cheryl Bradshaw—the unwitting contestant opposite Alcala’s “eligible bachelor”—draws audiences into a world where charm is a weapon and silence can be fatal. Cheryl, initially enchanted by the playful repartee, soon senses something chilling beneath the facade. Alcala, portrayed by Daniel Zovatto with unnerving charisma, is every bit the picture-perfect charmer–friendly, alluring, and perfectly articulated. However, it’s Kendrick’s direction, with subtle cues and lingering shots, that cracks his mask to reveal the lurking predator underneath.
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At its core, Woman of the Hour unearths the unspoken power plays that can turn mundane interactions sinister. Cheryl, like so many women, is trained to be agreeable, to play nice even when her intuition signals danger. Kendrick constructs a delicate, intense tension, placing Cheryl in a position where survival hinges on maintaining appearances. That feeling—the razor-thin line between trust and fear—is the film’s pulse, haunting each scene with a quiet, creeping dread.
This tension felt painfully familiar just weeks ago, when I found myself in an eerily similar situation. A ride in a rideshare app quickly turned into a test of survival, my driver steering the conversation into territory that turned unsettling fast. Genuinely, it became abundantly clear that if I failed to say the right things, I likely would not return home. And in that moment, politeness no longer felt like an option; survival meant choosing every word with caution. No matter how uncomfortable, my life truly was in someone else’s hands. And the only crime I committed? Being a woman at the mercy of a man.
Woman of the Hour confronts this chilling reality with subtle precision. Cheryl represents countless women who navigate a world where predators wear friendly faces, say exactly the right words, and take advantage of a culture that teaches them to stay calm, play along, and smile through fear. Kendrick’s Alcala is the ultimate wolf in sheep’s clothing—even looking like the best, most well-mannered, humorous, and intelligent option of the bunch (yikes).
Still from Woman of the Hour
Kendrick’s genius lies in her restraint. She bypasses overt violence or shocking twists, letting the suffocating tension speak for itself. It makes your heart pound just as much as a slasher film–praying that she gets away. Alcala’s charm is magnetic but weaponized; Kendrick’s Cheryl senses the danger but battles against the instinct to flee, suppressed by societal conditioning to be “nice” or to not “disappoint.” Woman of the Hour tackles more than thriller tropes; it questions the societal norms that often push women to ignore their gut feelings in the name of keeping peace.
As Cheryl learns, and as Kendrick underscores, trusting your instincts can be the only protection against charm’s hidden dangers. Woman of the Hour reminds us that survival is rarely about the right words or even playing along—it’s about breaking free of the constructed politeness that predators exploit. For Cheryl, Kendrick, and countless others, the lesson is stark and powerful: sometimes, survival means refusing to play the game.
