Were it not for so many commercials, I’d be tuned 24/7 to the nostalgic episodes on the Game Show Network.  I loved seeing the clothes, the hairstyles, and the types of questions the hosts were bold enough to ask contestants before we started to recognize just how inappropriate their comments were.  Even before the GSN was formed, I remember watching a lot of strange game shows on T.V. when I stayed home sick (Sale of the Century, anyone?  How about Rodeo Drive?), but one that was far before my time was The Dating Game, a kitschy, flirtatious fixture of 1970s T.V. that offered its audience light-hearted fun.

Running in various versions between 1965 and 2001, the show featured a bachelorette questioning three unseen bachelors to see who would be her perfect match.  She would pick one at the end of the rounds, and they’d go on a fabulous date.  Numerous stars (like Sally Field, Steve Martin, John Ritter, Tom Selleck, Suzanne Somers, and Farrah Fawcett) appeared on the show before they became famous. Still, one man from a 1978 episode has become semi-infamous for the chilling secret he was keeping.

Serial killer Rodney Alcala, already responsible for five murders (at least), appeared as a contestant and won a date with bachelorette Cheryl Bradshaw.  While nothing happened to Bradshaw,  this real-life horror story is the basis for the unsettling backdrop of Woman of the Hour, a pulse-pounding thriller that marks star Anna Kendrick’s gripping directorial debut.  Premiering at the 2023 Toronto International Film Festival, where I had the great honor of seeing its world premiere, the film has been on my mind ever since.  Watching it again recently before its Netflix debut reminded me that reality can be much more haunting than fiction.

Those coming into Woman of the Hour expecting a typical Anna Kendrick film will be set straight right from the beginning, as the actress isn’t in the opening moments, instead capturing a horrifying encounter when Alcala (Daniel Zovatto, Don’t Breathe) strikes an unsuspecting single mother.  Only then are we introduced to Kendrick (Alice, Darling) as Bradshaw, a struggling actress in L.A. convinced to go on The Dating Game by her agent (listen closely and tell me if you can guess the uncredited actress playing her agent is) as a way for casting directors to notice her. 

As Bradshaw prepares for her appearance and throughout the taping, Kendrick intelligently cuts away to Alcala before and after the taping (he wouldn’t be formally arrested and tried until 1979 after other attacks and murders) as well as to the perspective of an audience member (Nicolette Robinson, One Night in Miami…) who remembers Alcala as the person she reported as last seen with her girlfriend before she turned up murdered a year earlier.  When the show begins, Kendrick injects some fun into the film, doling out comedy that gradually grows eerie the closer we get to Bradshaw selecting Alcala as her match.

When the film does get to Bradshaw’s brief yet disturbing interaction with Alcala, Zovatto and Kendrick play this extended sequence like they know the audience is holding its collective breath. What saved Bradshaw that day wasn’t luck—it was her immediate wariness after the show was taped, an instinct Kendrick expertly highlights in her performance and direction.  This has been a banner year for the horror genre, and while Woman of the Hour isn’t anywhere close to that classification, I can’t think of another scene this year as unbearably tense as Bradshaw’s nighttime walk to her car after rejecting Alcala’s advances.

Surprisingly, Kendrick wasn’t originally intending to direct the film.  The rumor is that Chloe Okuno (Watcher) was initially attached to Ian McDonald’s screenplay (featured on the famous Black List of unproduced work in 2017), but when she exited, Kendrick stepped in rather last minute —thankfully so, as her work behind the camera feels both assured and deeply empathetic. Without turning a blind eye to the violence or sensationalizing the cruelty Alcala exerted on his victims, she brings a remarkable sensitivity to the grim facts, transforming what could have been a true-crime spectacle into a suspenseful, nuanced recreation that respects the victims and their families.

Kendrick’s understated portrayal of Bradshaw is just one of the film’s successes.  There’s a constant tension in her performance, as if she’s perpetually aware that she’s somewhere she shouldn’t be.  First in the studio on a T.V. show she knows she has no business being on, and then out with a man exerting a bad vibe.  The quiet, unsettling presence of Zovatto as Alcala is pretty terrifying, building a kind of insidious dread that never seeks to explain away his actions (like so many movies are trying to do nowadays). 

I’m not entirely sure how much of Robinson’s role is based on one person; she’s spot-on representing the numerous witnesses and victims who spoke up and were ignored.  A powerhouse performance coming from Autumn Best as Amy (based on Alcala survivor Monique Hoyt) brings the victims’ voices to the forefront. Her portrayal is a powerful reminder of those who survived and those who didn’t, adding emotional depth to an already harrowing story.

The period production design transports viewers back to the era of disco balls and polyester suits, without ever coming across like nostalgia for nostalgia’s sake. In fact, Woman of the Hour is refreshingly restrained in its ’70s aesthetic, with the muted color palette and thoughtful costume design reflecting the era but never overwhelming the story. Kendrick uses these elements to highlight the two sides represented at the film’s core: the artificial, brightly lit T.V. studio and the dark, claustrophobic reality outside of it. 

Woman of the Hour is a tremendous achievement for Kendrick as an actress and director.  By focusing on the psychological and societal failures that allowed Alcala to get so far in his spree right onto a national T.V. stage, Kendrick’s film is a sobering reminder that sometimes, the most terrifying monsters blend in with everyday life.  Expect goosebumps, edge-of-your-seat suspense, and a lingering sense of anxiety long after the credits roll.