The gripping psychological drama Woman of the Hour delves into a chilling intersection of societal gender dynamics and true crime horror. Directed with acute precision, the film presents a nuanced narrative that goes beyond the surface-level terror of its central serial killer plot. The true horror lies not just in the heinous acts of violence but in the persistent undercurrent of systemic dismissal and mistreatment of women—particularly how their desires and autonomy are continuously undermined.
The film follows Sheryl, a young woman navigating the turbulent 1970s backdrop of societal expectations and gender norms, as she becomes unwittingly entangled in the orbit of a dangerous killer. Sheryl’s character is portrayed as quietly compelling, embodying the internal struggle of women caught between self-expression and societal compliance. Throughout the film, she often appears unsure, second-guessing her own instincts, and ultimately acquiescing to the desires and pressures of the men around her. One particularly striking motif is Sheryl’s constant apologizing—whether to diffuse tension, placate a man’s ego, or excuse herself for simply existing. These apologies aren’t signs of genuine regret but rather a learned reflex, exposing how women are conditioned to prioritize male comfort over their own sense of security or dignity. It’s a heartbreaking portrayal of how societal norms compel women to shrink themselves to survive.
The genius of Woman of the Hour lies in its refusal to separate the personal from the political. The film uses Sheryl’s story as a microcosm of larger societal issues, showcasing how gender norms not only stifle women’s choices but also place them in danger. Her hesitation and reluctance to assert herself, particularly in situations that later prove perilous, are not framed as personal flaws but as products of a culture that conditions women to act against their own instincts.
This tension is amplified in the character of Rodney, the seemingly charming yet deeply manipulative serial killer. Rodney’s killings aren’t just about control or violence—they’re inextricably tied to his fragile ego. His need to dominate stems from a pathological insecurity, a desperate craving for power and attention that fuels his cruelty. Rodney weaponizes societal expectations, preying on women who have been taught to suppress their discomfort or politeness out of fear of being seen as “difficult.” In many ways, his manipulations—and the violence that follows—serve as an extension of the same dynamics that force Sheryl to continually apologize, defer, and second-guess herself.
Visually, the film reinforces its themes through muted tones and tight framing that convey Sheryl’s internalized claustrophobia. Moments of discomfort linger, forcing the audience to sit with the weight of her unease. Her silence, her stifled instincts, and her repeated deference to male authority figures become the film’s most visceral elements—an indictment of how society gaslights women into second-guessing themselves, even at the cost of their own survival.
Woman of the Hour is a powerful commentary on the subtle and overt violence women endure, expertly tying these dynamics to a gripping thriller format. It challenges the audience to reflect on how societal norms enable predation, often without resistance or acknowledgment. While the film delivers suspense and intrigue as expected in a true-crime narrative, it is Sheryl’s struggle—raw, relatable, and deeply unsettling—and Rodney’s chilling portrayal of male entitlement that linger long after the credits roll.
This is more than a film about a serial killer. It’s an indictment of a culture that conditions women to fear asserting their desires and instincts, highlighting how horror extends beyond individual acts of violence to the pervasive structures that allow them to flourish. It’s a timely and important exploration of gender, power, and survival, wrapped in a taut, thought-provoking cinematic package.
Featured Image by Krzysztof Kotkowicz on Unsplash
