"After the Hunt" Is a Pleasurably Ludicrous House of Cards

"If there is a truth that holds firm beneath the wickedly slippery surfaces of Luca Guadagnino's movies, it's that presentation counts. No sartorial decision is made lightly, and no design element is arrived at by accident. The opening titles of his new drama, "After the Hunt," should have you on high alert. They're elegantly rendered in what looks to be Windsor Light Condensed, widely recognizable as Woody Allen's onscreen typeface of choice."

"A Thad Jones jazz standard on the soundtrack more or less confirms that we're watching a borderline trollish act of homage. Are we about to enter an enclave of attractive, privileged, hopelessly self-involved intellectuals, as in so many Allen movies? Or will Guadagnino's art imitate Allen's life, with a tale of grim allegations, firm denials, and he-said-she-said dialectics? Yes, to all of the above."

"After the Hunt revolves around Alma Imhoff, a professor in the philosophy department at Yale, where the talk is neither light nor condensed. She is played by Julia Roberts, who, you may recall, was a nineteen-fifties art-history instructor in "Mona Lisa Smile" (2003), pushing conservative-minded Wellesley women toward self-realization. Alma, a creature of our times, offers a pricklier kind of feminist inspiration: she's formidable, aloof, feared, and adored."

Guadagnino privileges meticulous presentation, with sartorial and design choices acting as deliberate signifiers. Opening titles use Windsor Light Condensed and a Thad Jones jazz standard to evoke Woody Allen and signal a playful homage. The story situates viewers among attractive, privileged intellectuals while threading in themes of grim allegations, denials, and he-said-she-said dynamics. The narrative centers on Alma Imhoff, a Yale philosophy professor portrayed by Julia Roberts, who projects cold scholarly authority and a pricklier contemporary feminism. Alma's warmth is rare, limited to one unguarded laugh, and her classroom presence is commanding through references like Foucault's panopticon. Costuming, hair, and lighting consistently frame her composed presence against refined interiors.

Read at The New Yorker