Love Lies Bleeding review: A brutal, horny midnight movie

Love Lies Bleeding, the jaw-unhinging sophomore feature from Rose Glass, is a gleefully gonzo midnight movie, but its vibes hold more weight than the story.

“Don’t ever fall in love, it really hurts,” one character says, echoing the through-line of Glass’ superb two-feature filmography: poisonous pleasure. Saint Maud blurred the line between divine ecstasy and pain, culminating in one of the most harrowing final frames of the 21st century – and the unquestionable arrival of a bold new voice in horror.

It was the sort of movie you’d discover on a quiet weeknight screening, a hush-hush word-of-mouth chiller that left phantom nails in your feet as you stumbled into the discomfort of night. Her second film is more of a hoot; raucous and bloody, lurid and fast-paced, less concerned with faith but just as invested in the toxicity (and blind eyes) of obsession. It’s an inversion of Corinthians: here, love isn’t patient, kind, or infallible.

As thematically potent as that is, unlike its predecessor, Love Lies Bleeding lacks broader originality and focus as it barrels towards its admittedly wacko conclusion. But doesn’t need genre-reshaping reverence: this is a helluva good time on its own merits, of which there are plenty.

Love Lies Bleeding is caught between heaven and hell

After the damp, coastal doom of Scarborough, the film’s chaos unfolds primarily in a small, dusty New Mexico town. It’s a sort of purgatory, caught between the blanket of a starfield and a crimson-soaked, death-ridden abyss we see in constant flickers; it’s the ultimate ’80s middle America, a melting pot of white picket fence couples whose only social outing is a firing range, needle-dotted addicts, and buff gym-goers.

Lou (Kristen Stewart) works at Carter’s, a haven of endurance and vanity; Ben Fordesman’s terrific cinematography, vivid and textured, hones in on sweat dangling on nipple hairs, pumping veins on curled arms, and puffed-out, drenched normies who clearly didn’t see the “only losers quit” sign. But she isn’t pumping iron: she’s elbow-deep in energy-drink-fueled sh*t thanks to a perpetually clogged toilet.

It all changes with the arrival of Jackie (Katy O’Brian), a hench drifter and Oklahoma runaway (her past and reasons for leaving are left ominously unclear) with dreams of winning a national bodybuilding contest in Las Vegas. She sleeps her way into a job as a waitress at a gun range, owned by Lou Sr. (Ed Harris, unashamedly styled like an icy Riff Raff), Lou’s maniacal father and local crime lord, before stopping by the gym – and her glistening biceps quickly catch Lou’s eye (as well as the other patrons, whose unwanted attention is quickly swatted).

A steroid jag in the arse sparks a heady love affair that’s unapologetically, toe-suckingly horny. Sorry prudes, but the sex scenes expertly communicate the knotty, super-charged dynamic of their relationship; it’s a motivator, a reward, and a crutch in any conflict. Soon, Lou is separating yolks from whites and living in domestic harmony – but a big complication involving her sister (Jena Malone, in a commanding and maddening turn) and her sleazebag husband (Dave Franco, on superbly slimy form) turns their dream into a neverending nightmare.

Superb performances keep the wheel steady

A24

Both leads deliver fabulous performances. O’Brian’s physicality isn’t her greatest asset: it’s how she uses it, somehow modest and imposing. The chemistry with Stewart is immediate, but she’s outmatched by her co-star, a bag of contradictions that’s never less than believable; an idler who’s incredibly resourceful, a loner who craves sexual attention, an enabled enabler. The latter is key in her on-off relationship with Daisy, her meth-chopped, smitten ‘friend’ (scene-stealingly portrayed by Anna Baryshnikov, bringing a wide-eyed, off-kilter verve more akin to the characters in Red Rocket).

Sean Baker isn’t the only recognizable voice in the film; there’s a contemporary momentum (and attempt at suspense, albeit it doesn’t quite land) akin to the Safdie Brothers, women (lesbian or otherwise) will always recall Thelma and Louise, and the griminess of its bodybuilding showcase recalled Michael Bay’s underrated Pain & Gain. But it’s the air of the surreal that makes Glass a singular voice; the pulsating body horror, sojourns into ‘roided-up delusions, plus Clint Mansell’s electronic, twinkling score. She is a master of mood and atmosphere.

However, while Saint Maud brilliantly, devastatingly mounted toward its (un)avoidable final scene, Love Lies Bleeding – to borrow some weightlifting parlance – loses its form in the last stretch, struggling to maintain the velocity and dramatic integrity of its colliding threads. That’s not to say there aren’t shocks – two moments earned a sharp chorus of gasps in my screening – but the destination, while commendably swung, is already the lesser-remembered part of a rollicking movie.

Love Lies Bleeding review score: 4/5

Love Lies Bleeding isn’t as good as Saint Maud, but it’s essential neo-pulp fiction: uncompromised, wild, and another exciting work from an emerging master.

Love Lies Bleeding hits cinemas on March 8. In the meantime, you can check out our list of 12 horror movies to get excited about in 2024.