The skies are blue, the sun unrelenting and the body count escalating in the Bakersfield, California, of “Honey Don’t!,” where Margaret Qualley’s private investigator tries to get a handle on the nefarious goings-on in her city with a small-town feel.
It’s the second film in Ethan Coen and Tricia Cooke’s so-called “lesbian B-movie trilogy,” and while this shaggy caper might not add up to anything significant — perhaps part of the “B-movie” point — it is fun and immensely watchable. That’s thanks in large part to Qualley’s turn as the smoothly confident Honey O’Donahue, kind of a Philip Marlowe, or maybe Veronica Mars, in cherry-red lipstick, high heels and silks (inspired choices for the sweltering setting by costume designer Peggy Schnitzer).
Honey is meant to be strikingly “other” in this very downtrodden Bakersfield of eccentrics, dropouts and lost souls, where missing teeth seem to be more prevalent than pedicures. It’s a carnival of very memorable, very Coen-esque misfits, like a grumpy bartender played by Don Swayze and Charlie Day’s clueless police officer Marty Metakawitch. Marty is not the only man in town who has trouble accepting that Honey will never be interested in him. You could play a drinking game with how many times she has to tell hapless men, “I like girls.”
Not only is queer literacy low in this Bakersfield, but many in town seem to have come under the influence of a church leader played by Chris Evans, the Rev. Drew Devlin, whose high-wattage smile and proclivity for flirting have made him a local celebrity. Evans, who seems to be having fun in a weirder role, plays the Rev. Drew as a charismatic creep, an ego-driven and possibly sex-addicted influencer who is also peddling drugs and arranging hits around town. He too has a boss, or bosses, known only as “the French,” which is amusingly underexplained. And he’s often completely, or nearly, naked and involved in some cringey, experimental acts with his naive followers.
Not unlike the new “The Naked Gun,” this saga begins with a suspicious vehicular death. The deceased was an almost-client of Honey’s, which sets her off poking around and looking for answers. Most of her cases are of the cheating spouse type, and this is just more interesting. Meanwhile, others start dropping dead too. Some of these deaths feel spiritually, comedically similar to the Mark Pellegrino sequence in “Mullholland Drive” (not the only Lynchian nod). And all signs are pointing back to the church, though Honey gets a bit distracted with a new fling in Aubrey Plaza’s lustful cop MG Falcone and some family drama with her wayward niece Corinne (Talia Ryder).
“Honey Don’t” might play more like a pilot episode of a television series than a contained film, but it is a step up from Coen and Cooke’s previous effort, “Drive Away Dolls,” which felt constructed of comedic parts whose shelf life expired 20 years ago. This script, written by Coen and Cooke, is probably just as vintage, technically speaking, but it feels more timeless. With a stable of memorable side characters, including Josh Pafchek as the reverend’s assistant and Jacnier as a skittish new drug dealer named Hector, “Honey Don’t” is gory, unapologetically sexual, quippy and dark. It also clocks in at under 90 minutes — they knew just when to get out.
As Ethan Coen finds his groove as a solo director, “Honey Don’t” might not be “The Big Lebowski” or “Raising Arizona,” but it is a swing in the right direction. At this rate, if we get the pleasure of seeing a third film, it might just be a classic.
“Honey Don’t!” a Focus Features release in theaters Friday, is rated R by the Motion Picture Association for “some strong violence, language, graphic nudity, strong sexual content.” Running time: 88 minutes. Three stars out of four.
