Do Revenge

The screen practically bleeds lavender and mint green from the opening frame, a visual sugar rush that feels like someone dropped a vintage 1995 Polly Pocket into a 2022 TikTok filter. It’s an immediate signal that Jennifer Kaytin Robinson isn't interested in the drab, gritty realism that haunts so many modern teen dramas. Instead, Do Revenge arrives as a neon-soaked, high-octane homage to the era of the "High School Movie" as an art form. I watched this while trying to assemble a very frustrating IKEA plant stand, and the sheer, calculated pettiness unfolding on my iPad actually helped me tighten the screws with newfound spite.

Gen Z Meets the 90s Meat Grinder

There is a specific kind of alchemy required to tribute the past without looking like you’re wearing your older sister’s hand-me-downs. Do Revenge pulls it off by leaning into the DNA of Heathers and Jawbreaker, then splicing it with a plot straight out of Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train. The premise is deliciously simple: Drea (Camila Mendes) is the dethroned queen bee of Rosehill Country Day, ruined by a leaked "intimate" video, while Eleanor (Maya Hawke) is an awkward transfer student burned by an old rumor. They decide to "do" each other’s revenge to avoid suspicion.

Camila Mendes (who I’ve mostly seen in the increasingly unhinged Riverdale) is a revelation here. She plays Drea with a sharp-edged desperation that makes you realize she’s not just a "mean girl"—she’s a girl who worked twice as hard to belong in a world of inherited wealth. Opposite her, Maya Hawke—so often the "cool girl" in things like Stranger Things—gets to play with a twitchy, unsettling energy. Their chemistry is the engine of the movie, oscillating between genuine sisterhood and a vibe that suggests they might actually poison each other's kombucha at any moment.

The Art of the Fake-Woke Villain

What makes this film feel so inherently now is how it weaponizes the language of modern social discourse. The primary antagonist, Max Broussard (Austin Abrams), is the ultimate final boss of the 2020s. He’s not a meathead jock or a traditional bully; he’s the guy who starts a "Cis-Hetero Men for Championing Female Identifying Voices" club while secretly being a toxic manipulator. Max Broussard is basically what happens if a "He/Him" Instagram bio gained sentience and a trust fund.

Austin Abrams, who was so sweet in Dash & Lily, plays Max with a punchable, squinty-eyed smugness that is genuinely terrifying. The film captures that specific frustration of the "streaming era" social landscape: the person hurting you is using the same progressive language you use to defend yourself. It’s a brilliant bit of writing by Robinson and Celeste Ballard, showing that while the outfits change, the power dynamics of high school are eternal—they just have better branding now.

A Soundtrack That Slaps and Bites

The production design here is doing some heavy lifting. The Rosehill uniforms look like something out of a futuristic Wes Anderson fever dream, and the cinematography by Brian Burgoyne treats every hallway walk like a runway show. Then there’s the score by Este Haim and the needle drops. We’re talking about a movie that blends Olivia Rodrigo with The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. It’s a curated collision of generations that reminds me why I love these types of movies: they create a world that is totally fake but feels emotionally truer than the real thing.

Speaking of legacy, the casting of Sarah Michelle Gellar as the Headmistress is the ultimate chef’s kiss. It’s a meta-handover of the "it-girl" baton from the queen of Cruel Intentions to the new guard. Apparently, Robinson didn't think Gellar would actually do it, but once she signed on, they expanded the role to give her that icy, authoritative edge she pioneered in the late 90s. It’s a subtle nod to the fact that while Drea and Eleanor think they’re inventing revenge, the elders have been doing it since the Clinton administration.

One of the coolest details I found out later is that the film’s title is a deliberate, grammatically "incorrect" nod to the way Gen Z speaks—it’s not "get revenge," it’s "do revenge." It’s that level of commitment to the bit that makes this work. The film wears its influences like a stolen Prada headband, but it never feels like a cheap copy. It’s a movie that understands that sometimes, the only way to survive the crushing weight of social expectations and digital surveillance is to burn it all down with a smile on your face.

This isn't a film trying to be an "instant classic" through self-importance; it earns its spot by being a riotous, colorful, and surprisingly twisty ride. It’s the kind of Netflix original that makes you glad you haven’t cancelled your subscription yet. If you’ve ever wanted to see a high school hierarchy dismantled with the precision of a surgical strike, this is your weekend watch. Just don't blame me if you suddenly feel the urge to buy a beret and start a plot against your high school ex.