Kurtis David Harder’s Influencers pulses with the energy of a world immersed in screens, desire, and the uncanny closeness of strangers. Cassandra Naud’s CW stands at the heart of this rhythm, a woman constantly reinventing herself with the same urgency others refresh their feeds. The film hits you with a jolt at the start, then transitions into a contemplative, almost tender exploration of how people craft new identities. Harder choreographs this story with a poetic flow, imbuing even its most intense moments with a haunting tranquility.
CW’s anniversary trip with Diane through the scenic landscapes of Southern France radiates a subtle sense of renewal. Diane, portrayed with gentle steadiness by Lisa Delamar, offers CW a life that feels both earned and delicately fragile. Their scenes together pulse with the promise of a couple striving to forge something genuine. As Charlotte, played by Georgina Campbell, enters their world with her carefully curated charm and endless invitations, the film intensifies its exploration of performance. CW’s growing frustration finds its climax at a secluded landmark, where she pushes Charlotte to her death—transforming it into a dark stage for a chilling transformation she readily embraces.
The return home shifts the tone dramatically. Diane’s uncovering of CW’s hidden passports and dark past shatters their relationship, revealing a deeply personal and tragic rift. Their confrontation is electric with raw emotion, and Diane’s death hits with quiet, heartbreaking sorrow rather than dramatic flair. CW’s grief assumes an eerie new form as she recreates Diane’s voice into an AI assistant—a poignant act that mixes longing with a desperate need for self-protection. Harder approaches this with an unexpectedly tender touch, as if CW is grasping at a version of love she can still control.
Madison’s reemergence brings a fresh, compelling dynamic. Emily Tennant captures her with quiet resilience— a woman molded by scrutiny yet still seeking the truth. Her journeys to France and Bali inject a lively sense of movement, as if the story itself is chasing CW across continents. Madison’s discovery of CW in Diane’s mother’s Instagram feed feels like a modern detective’s pursuit, rooted in the pulse of online life.
The Bali section introduces Jacob and Ariana, portrayed by Jonathan Whitesell and Veronica Long, whose alt-right influencer personas ignite a tense and volatile triangle with CW and Madison. Ariana, especially as the woman from the opening scene, weaves a tragic thread through the story. Her descent after CW leaks the sex tape feels more like an emotional unraveling than mere shock, with Harder portraying her story with deep empathy. Her final moments are hauntingly still, leaving a lasting impression.
The clash between Madison and CW unfolds with an almost foregone sense of fate. Their heated exchange over Ariana’s death is like a battle of two women weighed down by fears, fame, and the will to survive. The subsequent fight is depicted with sharp clarity, while Jacob’s stabbing introduces a chaotic twist to the unraveling web. Madison’s clever use of AI‑Diane to carry out her revenge adds a poetic symmetry, as if Diane’s voice continues to steer the story toward its inevitable conclusion.
Madison’s graceful exit from the hideout, her smile lingering, instantly shifts the tone. It’s a powerful moment that embodies a woman’s reclaiming of her narrative, even as the world continues its noise-filled spectacle around her. Harder expertly lets this ending breathe, wrapping the story in a conclusion that feels both satisfying and well-deserved.
The film’s most compelling thread is its introspective exploration of pregnancy and the concept of double birth. While the story revolves around violence and identity, Harder delicately weaves in symbols of creation—CW’s transformation, the emergence of AI‑Diane, and the emotional renaissances of Madison and Ariana. These tender moments resonate with sincerity, offering a gentle counterpoint to the film’s sharper edges. As a result, Influencers evolves into a unique kind of romantic comedy—one fueled by longing, reinvention, and the fragile hope that genuine connection can still flourish in a world obsessed with curated selves.
Letter Grade: B+. On Shudder.
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