The chemically inert pair embark on a straightforward tryst, with Sophie picking up Elliot at an event he’s working. Elliot, being a more conventionally powerless himbo boy toy than the emotionally intelligent pop star in The Idea Of You or the role-reversing intern dom of Babygirl, falls hard—especially after Sophie flies him to Paris for their second meeting. It’s a power play, especially when deployed against a naïve guy who lives with his mom (Catherine Curtin). But that financial imbalance, like Curtin’s creepy performance and the deserted details of Elliot being a stunted mama’s boy (his mother’s face appearing as his phone’s background is a jump scare that never amounts to anything), is just narrative debris, dumped into the black hole void at the film’s center.
The lack of connection between Sophie’s deadpanned cool and Elliot’s frantic giddiness—a guileless, little-kid stare at Sophie’s always-on lingerie always on his face while he stumbles around for the right one-syllable words; “that was hot” is as lascivious as their dirty talk gets—suffuses each of their scenes with the ick. But their brief dalliance doesn’t end because the sex is as terrible as it looks. It’s because Elliot gets a little clingy, unable to understand that he’s simply being used. The dick of the week. This familiar break-up, which doesn’t come until the plodding film’s third act, accompanies a perspective shift that doesn’t deign to complicate the audience’s understanding of their relationship (even to the extent of something as banal as Disclaimer). Rather, it’s purely utilitarian: The less Pretty Thing has to show anything but the consequences of Elliot’s spurned-lover antics, the less it has to confront how little sense these off-screen actions make.
Many erotic thrillers come up with social repercussions or other narrative contrivances to prevent their would-be victims from taking the straightforward methods of dealing with a bad breakup. Someone can’t go to the cops/tell their loved ones because it would ruin their career, or destroy their family, or encourage violence from their ex. Not so for this film’s threats, which—much like its sex scenes—could be shown in a medical setting to calm people experiencing dangerously elevated heart rates. Pretty Thing so thoroughly lacks imagination that it simply runs down a list of jilted tropes, its final act formed from plot elements haphazardly chopped out of better movies, its screenplay arranged like a ransom note. And that’s before the 90-odd-minute movie starts with the “remember this?” clip show montage to pad out its runtime.
With a muted palette, comatose camera moves, and stiff performances, Pretty Thing fails to muster a come-hither horniness or revenge-driven venom. In its attempt to portray the horrors of hooking up with someone young and dumb, it lacks the necessary sleaze of a true lech—the misguided lust that fuels the life choices that will eventually blow up in its characters’ faces. Screwing (and then screwing over) the wrong guy is scary. Ask anyone trying to date men. But, the film is unable to make its dead-eyed arm candy either convincingly sexy or dangerous, its use-’em-and-lose-’em businesswoman especially domineering or heartless. When it comes to its audience’s pulse, Pretty Thing can’t get it up.
Director: Justin Kelly
Writer: Jack Donnelly
Starring: Alicia Silverstone, Karl Glusman, Tammy Blanchard, Catherine Curtin
Release Date: July 4, 2025
