Trust

In an era where our entire romantic histories are tucked behind biometric thumbprints and facial recognition, the "infidelity thriller" has had to get a lot more creative than finding a lipstick stain on a collar. I watched Trust (2021) late on a Tuesday while sipping some truly mediocre chamomile tea that had gone cold, and honestly, the tepid temperature of my drink was the perfect companion for a film that thrives on the slow-burn chill of a marriage beginning to crack. It’s a sleek, modern piece of work that feels like it was engineered specifically for the "Recommended for You" algorithm, yet it possesses a surprising amount of bite if you’re willing to look past the gloss.

The Anatomy of a Modern Doubt

The film centers on Brooke (Victoria Justice) and Owen (Matthew Daddario), a New York power couple who look like they’ve been airbrushed into existence. She’s an art gallery owner on the verge of a major career breakthrough; he’s a handsome news anchor who spends his days reporting on other people's tragedies. When Brooke signs a seductive, boundary-pushing Irish painter named Ansgar (Lucien Laviscount), the foundation of her marriage starts to wobble. Meanwhile, Owen finds himself lured into the orbit of a mysterious blonde, Amy (Katherine McNamara), during a supposed business trip.

What I appreciated about Brian DeCubellis’s direction here is that he doesn’t treat the New York art world as a caricature. Instead, he uses it as a metaphor for the film’s central question: Is what we’re seeing the "truth," or just a carefully curated perspective? Victoria Justice puts in a lot of work to shed her Nickelodeon-era sheen, giving Brooke a weary, intelligent edge that keeps the movie grounded when the plot starts to lean into its soapier tendencies. On the flip side, Matthew Daddario plays Owen with a simmering insecurity that makes you wonder if he’s a victim of circumstance or the kind of guy who buys a gym membership just to check out his own reflection.

Streaming Sleaze with a High-End Finish

Trust arrived during that strange mid-pandemic window where theatrical releases were anemic and streaming platforms were hungry for "adult dramas" that didn't involve capes or multiverses. Because it was distributed by Vertical, it lacked the massive marketing muscle of a Netflix Original, which is likely why it remains a bit of a hidden find. It’s a "shmedium" budget film—not quite indie, not quite blockbuster—that occupies the space once held by 90s erotic thrillers like Indecent Proposal.

However, unlike those sweaty 90s predecessors, Trust is sterile and sharp. The cinematography by David Tumblety (who worked on The Only Living Boy in New York) is all glass, steel, and reflections. It’s a film about people who live in beautiful cages, looking at each other through screens and gallery partitions. I found myself particularly enjoying the scenes featuring Ronny Chieng as Adam. Chieng, usually known for his acerbic comedy in The Daily Show or Crazy Rich Asians, brings a dry, cynical energy to the proceedings that acts as a necessary "BS detector" for the audience.

The movie is actually based on a play called Push by DeCubellis, and you can feel those theatrical bones in the way the story pivots. It’s built on "he said/she said" reveals and non-linear jumps that challenge your allegiances. At one point, I was convinced Owen was the villain; ten minutes later, I was ready to defend him in court. The film plays with your assumptions like a cat with a half-dead mouse, and while it doesn't always land the knockout blow, it keeps you guessing.

Why This One Slipped Through the Cracks

If you’re looking for a reason why Trust isn't talked about more, it’s probably because it’s a "quiet" thriller. It doesn't have the bombastic twists of a Gillian Flynn adaptation like Gone Girl, nor does it have the prestige pedigree of an Oscar contender. It’s a movie about the micro-aggressions of jealousy—the way a text message notification can feel like a gunshot in a quiet room.

Interestingly, a lot of the behind-the-scenes buzz was focused on Lucien Laviscount and Katherine McNamara's involvement, both of whom have massive fanbases from Emily in Paris and Shadowhunters, respectively. Their casting was a savvy move for the social media age, ensuring the film had life on Instagram and Twitter even if it wasn't dominating the box office. Yet, despite the young, "buzzy" cast, the film feels surprisingly mature in its cynicism. It suggests that in the 2020s, "trust" isn't an emotion—it's a luxury we can no longer afford.

Ultimately, Trust is a solid, entertaining diversion that understands the specific paranoia of the modern age. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a really good airport novel: you know it’s a bit trashy, you know exactly what it’s doing to you, but you can’t stop turning the pages. It’s a reminder that even in the streaming era, there’s still room for a mid-budget drama that just wants to make you suspicious of your partner’s "late night at the office."

If you’ve got 90 minutes and a skeptical disposition, it’s a journey into the NYC art scene that’s well worth the entry fee. Just don't blame me if you find yourself side-eyeing your spouse's phone during the credits. It’s a slick little machine that does exactly what it sets out to do: make you question everything you just saw.