Honey Don't!

If you walked into a theater expecting the somber, existential dread of No Country for Old Men or the intricate clockwork of Fargo, you probably walked out of Honey Don’t! feeling like you’d been pranked by a master. That is exactly how Ethan Coen and his screenwriter wife Tricia Cooke want you to feel. Following up on their 2024 neon-drenched caper Drive-Away Dolls, this film is the second installment in what they’ve dubbed their "lesbian B-movie trilogy." It’s loud, it’s proud, it’s deeply silly, and—judging by the box office receipts—it’s a movie that almost nobody actually saw in a theater.

I watched this on my laptop while nursing a mild case of food poisoning from a questionable street taco, and honestly, the feverish lightheadedness only made the film’s surrealist edges sharper. There is something liberating about watching a legendary filmmaker decide he has absolutely nothing left to prove to the Academy and just wants to play with his favorite toys.

The Gospel According to Chris Evans

The plot, for what it's worth, follows Honey O’Donahue (Margaret Qualley), a private investigator in a dusty corner of Bakersfield who finds herself tangled in a web of "accidental" deaths connected to a local church. But the mystery is really just a clothesline for the characters to hang their eccentricities on. Margaret Qualley returns to the Coen-Cooke cinematic universe with a performance that suggests she is vibrating at a frequency only dogs and high-strung toddlers can hear. She plays Honey with a frantic, wide-eyed sincerity that anchors the absurdity.

The real revelation, though, is Chris Evans as Reverend Drew Devlin. We’ve seen Evans play the hero and the "smarmy prick" (looking at you, Knives Out), but here he leans into a specific type of contemporary American monster: the social media-savvy, ultra-charismatic cult leader who hides his sociopathy behind a blindingly white smile and a well-fitted suit. Evans plays a man of God with the moral compass of a hungry seagull. It’s a hilarious, unsettling performance that highlights the era’s obsession with influencer-adjacent spirituality. Whenever he’s on screen, the movie crackles with the kind of dark energy the Coens are famous for, even if the "Brothers" brand is currently split in half.

A Masterclass in Visual Camp

Technically, the film is a fascinating hybrid. You have Ari Wegner (who shot the austere The Power of the Dog) bringing a vibrant, almost garish palette to the screen. It looks like a comic book that’s been left out in the sun. The editing is snappy—sometimes aggressively so—mimicking the rhythm of a classic screwball comedy but filtered through a modern, cynical lens.

Then there’s Aubrey Plaza as MG Falcone. Plaza has built a career on being the coolest person in the room, but here she manages to find a weird, desperate gear that fits perfectly into the mystery-thriller structure. The chemistry between her and Qualley is the film’s secret weapon. They treat the ridiculous dialogue with the gravity of Shakespeare, which is the only way comedy this broad actually works. The jokes don’t always land, but they fly by so fast you don't have time to mourn the duds.

The score by Carter Burwell—the long-time Coen collaborator—is doing heavy lifting here. It’s mischievous and slightly off-kilter, reminding us that while people are dying and cults are forming, we shouldn’t be taking any of this too seriously. It’s a "vibe" movie in the truest sense of the word, prioritizing atmosphere and character beats over a bulletproof plot.

Why Did This Disappear?

Looking at the financial data provided by Focus Features, Honey Don’t! was a theatrical casualty. A $20 million budget against a $7.4 million return is a tough pill to swallow. In our current era of "franchise or bust," mid-budget comedies—especially those that are weird, queer, and proudly "B-movie" in spirit—are finding it harder to find an audience outside of the festival circuit.

It also suffered from the inevitable comparison to the full Coen Brothers filmography. Without Joel Coen’s meticulous sense of structure, Ethan’s solo work feels looser, messier, and more indulgent. Some critics called it "minor Coen," which I think misses the point. It’s not trying to be a masterpiece; it’s trying to be a riot. It was dumped into theaters with a marketing campaign that didn’t quite know how to sell a "lesbian P.I. comedy-thriller" to a general audience, and it vanished into the streaming ether within weeks.

However, being "forgotten" might be the best thing for a movie like this. It has all the hallmarks of a future cult classic—the kind of movie you find on a boring Tuesday night and immediately text three friends about because it feels like a secret you’ve just been let in on. It engages with our current cultural moment—the obsession with true crime, the rise of charismatic grifters, and the fragmentation of the American small town—without ever becoming a "message movie."

Honey Don't! is a jagged, colorful, and frequently hilarious detour from one of cinema’s most respected voices. It’s a reminder that even when the giants of the industry are "just messing around," they’re usually more interesting than the biggest blockbusters on the marquee. If you can handle a plot that meanders and a tone that refuses to settle down, it’s a trip worth taking.

I’m glad Ethan Coen is making movies like this. We need more filmmakers who are willing to spend twenty million dollars on a joke that only half the audience will get. It’s messy, it’s niche, and it’s destined to be rediscovered by a whole new generation of cinema nerds in ten years who will wonder why we didn't appreciate it more in 2025. Be ahead of the curve and find it now.