Alex Ross Perry’s latest feature, Her Smell, focuses on the career of a rock star, Becky (played by Elisabeth Moss), and the ways in which changes in her personal life shape it. Formerly a rising star, Becky has become self-destructive and narcissistic, hurting everyone around her as she burns relationships and careers in drug-fuelled mania. Ruining the chances for her own band to maintain their success, she alienates her friends, mother, ex-husband, and young child, as she spirals out of control. A series of scenes charting her downfall make up the film’s first section, while the second half finds Becky some years later. Newly meek and sober, she attempts to reconcile with the people in her life, proving to them that she can make amends and change for the better.
‘Destructive Becky’ and ‘recovering Becky’ provide the tonal and aesthetic cues for each part, while both sections are punctuated with short videos vignettes of a younger Becky, full of potential. These vignettes, offering a glimpse at Becky as a stable, happy individual, excited by the new-found success she sees as she looks at herself on a magazine cover or gets a gold record, offer background without too much detail or urgency. Instead, Becky’s present segments make up the ‘meat’ of the film.
The first segment is chaotic. A Cassavetes-style nightmare, the camera whips around and blurs in and out of focus, claustrophobic, too close to its screaming, neurotic characters. And at its centre is the violently self-aggrandising Becky, surrounded by the people who react to her with frustration and disappointment. The second is, by contrast, more subdued, and artistically more conventional. In quiet scenes, Becky is timid and rational. Through her music she expresses remorse over her past actions, taking the blame rather than deflecting. Her daughter, now seven years old, is becoming a bigger presence in her life, and conversations with her bandmates and her ex, Danny (Dan Stevens) are civil, if not friendly. Becky has the chance to finally make a comeback, and, on stage, she uses her songs to express gratitude, in a faux-feminist nod, to the women around her before leaving to be with her daughter.
Beneath the initial chaos of the first half is a noticeable layer of mockery, if not outright cruelty. Becky is horrible to those around her, but her behaviour (suggested to be the result of mental illness and addiction) is presented without context: she is dehumanised to only her aura of negativity. With no redeeming qualities, perceptive critiques of character and moments of humour alike are presented at Becky’s expense. A creature of pure toxicity, we are welcomed to judge her, and while we may be fascinated by her difficult nature, we ultimately condemn her. And this culminates in the biggest of her failures, as a mother.
At the start of the film she ignores her toddler, presumably more interested in drugs. When she decides to engage with the child, she remains far more concerned with her hired shaman (Eka Darville, the only character of colour in the film). In her rages and passions, Becky is territorial of her child, but not caring, at one point even dropping the infant when she passes out. Mommie Dearest-style, Becky neglects and (physically and emotionally) hurts her child when she puts her ambitions above her baby, nevertheless clinging to the girl, never freeing her to have a normal, healthy life without her.
The film shifts gears when it gets to Becky’s sobriety. With sensitivity, moments are meant to be heartfelt and moving. Becky gives her daughter the attention she never afforded her as a toddler, she thanks her friends profusely for their support where she previously derided them for not bowing down to her genius, and she takes up music in a healthier way. When Becky is recovered, her life most significantly centres around her daughter. Attempting to make amends, Becky is eager to impress the girl, catering to her needs in a superficial way. The film opens with Becky playing an encore, soaking up the fans’ cheers; by the end of the film, when crowds cheer for more, Becky’s daughter runs to her and she asks her mother to stay with her. Becky gladly concedes to the request, not returning to the stage.
The film is deeply moralistic when it comes to maternal duty. Becky is a failure for how she treats her friends or career, but mainly for how she treats her straight-laced ex-husband and child. Returning repeatedly to the domestic (Danny and the baby pop up in the most inappropriate situations, shoehorning in the reminder that on top of everything else, Becky is a bad mother), our sympathies are drawn to the neglected baby more than anything, while Becky’s recovery centres less upon her friendships, career, or sobriety, and more upon how those elements enable her to become a better mother. Perry’s film is not compassionate enough to make Becky’s transformation feel like anything other than judgemental misogyny.
The first half of Her Smell is more tonally akin to his other works: as in Perry’s past films, we find a narrative which is sensitive, and maybe even affectionate towards difficult characters who are nevertheless viciously critiqued. When the film switches to the uplifting tale of Becky’s recovery, the effect is jarring. If the intent is to create something moving, Her Smell misses the mark, instead drowning in vapid melodrama which is forced and awkward (a long take of Becky singing Bryan Adams’s ‘Heaven’ to her daughter is cringe-inducing). But if the intent is a continued irony, then it is tastelessly mean-spirited. Perry has always been interested in selfish assholes, criticising them while also being fascinated with them and finding humour in their foibles. His turn to humanism is trite and, honestly, hard to believe.
After the hateful energy of the first half, it is hard to swallow anything from the second, while the general goodwill towards the previously toxic Becky is tainted by ideals of the domestic. Leaning into the conventional for his conclusion, Perry is also mired in the conservative, and his preachy condemnation of his protagonist feels old-fashioned and out of touch. Her Smell has merits in its parts: one can admire the aesthetic commitment of the first half, and one can equally appreciate the more successful drama of the second half, while Moss gives an incredible performance throughout. But together the film is unwieldy, a brash regurgitation of cinematic and narrative styles with a regressive heart. Her Smell‘s two parts prove incoherent, only brought together by their striking sexism.
