A Horrible Woman 2017

Immature and naive bachelor Rasmus, Anders Juul, meets the sophisticated Marie, Amanda Collin, believing he has found the love of his life. Marie moves in with him and immediately begins to exert control over his everyday world, reshaping the apartment, selling his CDs, and, more tellingly, writing his schedule on the kitchen whiteboard for her eyes only. As the relationship tightens its grip, Rasmus’s attempts to push back are met with gaslighting and a quiet, persistent reinforcement of Marie’s own wants. The dynamic is intimate and unsettling, with each small instruction from Marie nudging him further from his former self and deeper into a pattern that she curates.

At a museum visit, Marie’s ruthless critique of Rasmus’s passive, compliant nature triggers a flare of temper in him, and he storms off in frustration. Almost immediately, he catches sight of Marie outside, her tone softening as she talks flirtatiously with Jonathan, her former classmate. The scene sets a tension that threads through the rest of the night: Marie agrees to accompany Jonathan and some other former classmates to an art exhibition, which she attends with a practiced, almost casual enthusiasm. Rasmus, initially out of his element, finds himself drawn into a growing rapport with Jonathan, a development that does not escape Marie’s notice. The two men share laughs and jokes, a small rebellion in her eyes, and the friction between them becomes a visible indicator of the shifting power in the relationship. When they return home, Marie’s quick-witted barbs slice through Rasmus’s self-image, bluntly suggesting that it would be better if he could become someone entirely different—an invitation, or perhaps a warning, that pushes him to confront the limits of his own identity.

Months pass, and Rasmus is living alone again, having restored the apartment to its previous, simpler state. He is on the verge of booking a year-long trip to Argentina when Marie arrives under the pretense of collecting a painting. Her demeanor shifts to a fragile vulnerability as she declares that she misses him, and she breaks down in tears. Rasmus matches the emotional break, a rare moment of mutual release that briefly redefines their bond. The moment ends with a kiss, and for the second time in the film, Marie breaks the fourth wall, delivering a sly, knowing grin that seems to acknowledge the audience and blur the line between performance and reality. It’s a chilling reminder of her control and the way the world around them might be seen through her eyes.

As time moves forward, the couple’s life takes another significant turn: Marie becomes heavily pregnant, and friends host a baby shower in the familiar apartment. The decorations, once again perfectly in place, signal a return to a controlled, stylized world where Marie maintains command over the space and the rhythms of daily life. Rasmus, clearly deflated by the ongoing dynamics, resumes his habit of retreating into moments of quiet frustration—he steps outside briefly, lets out a scream of bottled emotions, and then re-enters the party, continuing to perform within the carefully constructed atmosphere she has built around them. The scene repeats the film’s core tension: Marie’s outward charm and inward manipulation, the persistent questioning of who really holds the strings, and the way ordinary events—moving, social visits, celebrations—become stages for her careful orchestration of Rasmus’s life.

Throughout, the narrative remains careful and observational, keeping a neutral tone that documents the evolving power play without oversimplifying it. The viewer watches how Marie’s seemingly affectionate gestures often carry a precise, controlling purpose, shaping Rasmus’s choices and reactions. The film’s world is intimate and claustrophobic, built from small, almost mundane acts that accumulate into a larger portrait of dependence, autonomy, and the fragility of identity within a relationship that feels at once glossy and constricting. The outcome is less about dramatic explosions and more about the slow, unsettling alignment of two people whose needs are intertwined in a complex, disquieting dance.

This exploration invites reflection on boundaries, vulnerability, and the way perception can be shaped by someone who knows exactly how to press the right buttons. It’s a quiet, unnerving meditation on love, control, and the often blurred line between care and coercion, kept firmly within the frame of a life that is both familiar and eerily unsettling. The film preserves a steady, neutral tone, allowing the audience to weigh the emotional currents for themselves as the couple’s rhythm deepens, evolves, and ultimately leaves an imprint that lingers beyond the final scene.