Nia DaCosta’s “Hedda” is one of those films that completely pulls you in. It’s hypnotic, gorgeous, and unsettling all at once.
The film reimagines Henrik Ibsen’s classic “Hedda Gabler” and moves it into the 1950s, a period obsessed with control and appearances, where every perfect smile hides something else. And at the center of it all is Tessa Thompson, who delivers one of the most layered and remarkable performances of her career.
The story follows Hedda as she’s torn between the lingering ache of a past love and the quiet suffocation of her present life. Early on, a repressed and scheming Hedda hosts a dinner party that tells you everything you need to know about her. She moves her guests into the ballroom, where the energy feels flat until she decides to change it. She whispers to the band, and suddenly a new rhythm takes over. The camera follows as she glides through her own home, orchestrating conversations, sparking flirtations, shifting the entire mood of the room. It’s seductive and a little terrifying because you realize how much power she holds in this small, beautiful world she’s built.
DaCosta has always had a sharp eye for control, both emotional and visual, and here she uses it to build tension through stillness. The camera lingers, often just watching Hedda react instead of speak. When movement or music finally cuts through that quiet, it hits with real force. The film feels like it’s breathing in rhythm with her.
Tessa Thompson is magnetic. She plays Hedda as a woman who believes she’s in charge, yet you can see the cracks forming under that polished surface. She controls every conversation, every guest, every glass of champagne poured, but the harder she tries to manage it all, the more trapped she becomes inside her own design. Thompson gives you both confidence and quiet panic, often in the same breath.
Then, about a third of the way through, Nina Hoss walks in and completely changes the temperature of the film. Her character, Aileen, Hedda’s former lover, feels like someone who’s already survived the kind of control Hedda still clings to. Hoss doesn’t need to fight for attention; her stillness is power. She plays Aileen with such calm precision that she becomes both a mirror and a warning, turning the film into something far more dangerous and intimate.
The film is divided into chapters, which I wasn’t entirely sold on. The story already moves with a natural rhythm, so breaking it up with title cards feels a little unnecessary. Still, you can see DaCosta’s intent. Each chapter feels like a new room in the same house, different lighting, same walls. It’s a clever way to show that Hedda can’t really escape the world she’s built.
Production design does a lot of the storytelling. The interiors are immaculate, filled with gold tones and shadowed corners. Hedda’s bedroom feels like a museum of her own mind, perfect and lifeless. Costumes tell their own story, too. Hedda hides behind soft, neutral tones while Aileen bursts into the frame like a disruption. The world looks flawless, but it’s suffocating by design.
DaCosta and cinematographer Sean Bobbitt give the film a visual rhythm that feels almost musical. The camera never just observes; it reacts. When Hedda’s mask slips, the frame tightens. When tension builds, the space seems to close in. And Hildur Guðnadóttir’s score pulses quietly beneath it all, never demanding attention but constantly shaping the mood.
What I love most about “Hedda” is how it explores a woman who believes she’s writing her own story but doesn’t realize how many of her choices are still being written for her. It’s a tragedy wrapped in elegance. Every glance, every word feels like it’s leading toward a release that never quite comes, and that restraint becomes the film’s sharpest weapon.
Nia DaCosta has crafted something haunting, beautiful, and deliberate. It’s not a film that shouts; it whispers, it lures, and it holds your gaze until you start questioning what’s really happening underneath all that beauty. By the time the credits roll, you realize “Hedda” isn’t just about control. It’s about the cost of believing you ever had it.
Watch the full review now on The Wandering Screen with Matt Koss on YouTube.
Letter grade: A+