Don’t Worry Darling review: What lies beneath the surface? Not much

We are in a perfect corner of perfect Eisenhower-era America. Every man pulls on an exquisitely cut suit before climbing into his gleaming sports car and driving to the facility that employs every lucky Joe in IdealVille, Arizona (or maybe New Mexico). The steaks are all enormous and moist. The wives are as primped and polished as the martinis are clean and dry. So what really goes on behind the white picket fence? Were you not listening, pal? Everything is perfect. They all get on famously and live to interact harmoniously as contented old folks.

I’m joking, of course. OIivia Wilde’s much-ballyhooed satirical thriller has barely cranked into gear before we are sensing aberrations in the heat haze. The only question is what class of familiar gilded cage we’re dealing with. It surely can’t be a spoiler to reveal the answer is all of them. You already know there is a bit of The Stepford Wives in here. You will certainly get a whiff of The Prisoner early on. But two sci-fi films from a bit later cause the most bells to ring.

If you know anything about Don’t Worry Darling, you will know that weeks of apparent tension between cast members – let me stress that “apparent”, because who really knows? – culminated in a sort of fantasy meltdown at the Venice Film Festival. Did Wilde fall out with Florence Pugh? Did Harry Styles spit on Chris Pine? You remember.

The costuming and production design are so crisp one can often overlook the vacuum within the packaging

That excitement may have inspired some critics to go in too hard on the flick itself. It isn’t terrible. It is just stunningly average. In his first lead role, the adequate Harry Styles offers evidence that, as pop star crossovers into film go, we may be experiencing more of a Cliff Richard arrangement than a Frank Sinatra ascendancy. The costuming and production design are so crisp one can often overlook the vacuum within the packaging. Pine has fun as a corporate dictator. You have seen worse.

It hardly needs to be said that Florence Pugh, in almost every scene as Styles’s suspicious wife, should be wearing a stocking mask and carrying a bag marked “swag”. To say she steals the film from under her colleagues’ noses is to understate the case. It’s like watching George Best play for Northern Ireland. With apologies to Larne’s Dave Clements. And LA’s Chris Pine, of course.