In 1978, American television promised innocence. Bright lights, canned laughter, flirtatious banter, and the comforting illusion that danger lived somewhere else. Then The Dating Game introduced “Bachelor Number One”: a smiling, soft-spoken photographer named Rodney Alcala. The audience laughed. The cameras rolled. And almost no one knew they were applauding a man who had already harmed—and killed—multiple women.
Anna Kendrick’s Woman of the Hour (2024) takes that surreal cultural moment and strips it of nostalgia. In her directorial debut, Kendrick transforms a bizarre footnote of TV history into a tightly controlled psychological thriller—one less interested in the spectacle of a serial killer than in the systems that allowed him to hide in plain sight.
A Monster Framed as Entertainment
Kendrick also stars as Sheryl Bradshaw (based on the real Cheryl Bradshaw), the bachelorette placed opposite Alcala on the September 13, 1978 episode. The film meticulously recreates the artificial cheer of the show: the studio applause, the forced flirtation, the glossy promise that everything is safe because it’s on television.
That’s the horror.
Alcala doesn’t lurk in shadows. He sits under hot lights. His answers are unsettling but clever enough to pass as humor. Kendrick’s direction emphasizes the gap between perception and instinct—how something can feel wrong even when everyone else is laughing. Bradshaw’s discomfort becomes the emotional anchor of the film, a quiet resistance in a room trained to dismiss unease as overreaction.
Historically, Bradshaw refused to go on the date after the show, later reporting Alcala’s behavior. The film treats this not as trivia, but as a radical act of survival in an era that routinely ignored women’s warnings.
The Camera as a Shield
The title’s thesis is simple and devastating: the camera doesn’t reveal truth—it often conceals it.
Alcala had already been convicted of violent crimes. He slipped through background checks that barely existed. Woman of the Hour refuses to mythologize him, instead exposing how charisma, gender norms, and institutional indifference worked together to protect him.
Kendrick’s restraint is key. She avoids sensationalism, focusing instead on perspective—especially that of women whose instincts were questioned, dismissed, or punished. The terror isn’t what Alcala does on screen; it’s how easily he is allowed to be there at all.
A Throughline: Psychological Horror Without Blood
This film pairs naturally with Kendrick’s earlier performance in Alice, Darling (2022), a study of emotional abuse rather than physical violence. Together, the two projects form a clear throughline in Kendrick’s career: an interest in how predators operate socially, not just criminally.
In Alice, Darling, the threat is intimate and invisible. In Woman of the Hour, it’s public and televised. Both stories ask the same question: why are charming men believed over uncomfortable women?
Kendrick has spoken about being drawn to stories where danger isn’t obvious—where harm hides behind politeness, humor, or romance. Her directorial choices reflect that philosophy, lingering on reaction shots, pauses, and moments of doubt rather than acts of violence.
Reclaiming the Narrative
Rodney Alcala was convicted of seven murders and suspected of many more. After his arrest, investigators found hundreds of photographs of women and girls—many still unidentified. Woman of the Hour acknowledges this reality without turning it into spectacle.
Instead, Kendrick reframes the story. This is not a film about a serial killer. It is a film about the people who sensed danger, survived it, or were ignored by systems that valued entertainment over safety.
By resurrecting a moment once treated as morbid trivia, Kendrick forces a reckoning with how culture enables predators—and how often warning signs are reframed as awkwardness, humor, or charm.
The applause fades. The studio lights dim. And what remains is the unsettling truth at the heart of the film:
Sometimes the most dangerous person in the room is the one smiling directly into the camera.