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What Was Men (2022) Really About? A24’s Gender Horror Fever Dream, Explained

There has been a lot of ink spilled—and just as much online rage-clicking—about A24’s deeply polarizing gender horror Men. Written and directed by Alex Garland (Ex Machina, Annihilation), Men is one of those films that leaves you squinting at the screen and whispering, “What did I just watch?” But more than that—it’s a film that demands interpretation. And let’s be honest, a certain type of guy really hates that.

At the heart of the film is Harper, played by the incandescent Jesse Buckley, who’s doing some of the most layered, haunted, and quietly powerful acting of her career. (Men may be polarizing, but Buckley is unanimously praised. Seriously, give her all the roles.) Following the death of her emotionally abusive husband James, Harper retreats to the English countryside to recover. What follows is a slow-burn descent into a surreal and terrifying meditation on womanhood, trauma, and toxic masculinity.

Let’s dive in, shall we? There are apples to bite, tunnels to echo through, and a lot of Rory Kinnear faces to unpack.

Harper and the Weight of Womanhood

From its first frames, Men makes it clear that this isn’t just a horror film—it’s a parable. A biblical one. In fact, the film opens with Harper eating an apple from a tree on the estate. The caretaker, Geoffrey (played by Kinnear, as every man in the village is), jokingly accuses her of “nicking” it. The moment is played lightly, but the metaphor is heavy: this is Eden, and she’s already sinned.

But what was the sin, really? Knowledge? Defiance? The refusal to stay quiet in the face of mistreatment? The question Men poses again and again is this: What crime must a woman commit to be considered “too much” by the men around her?

James’ death—he falls, or perhaps jumps, after Harper tells him she wants a divorce—is the origin wound that the film picks at. He weaponizes his mental health in his final conversation with her, saying his suicide would be her fault. His words are not a plea for help; they’re a warning. Control even from the grave. And Harper carries the guilt.

The Many Faces of Misogyny

Harper’s countryside retreat is supposed to be healing, but instead it becomes a living nightmare populated by men who all wear the same face—literally. Rory Kinnear plays them all: the creepy naked stalker, the gaslighting priest, the cruel boy who calls Harper a “bitch,” and the local cop who lets the naked man go free. This isn’t just a gimmick—it’s a thematic sledgehammer.

Each man represents a different archetype of misogyny. The priest blames Harper for her husband’s death. The boy demands she apologize. Geoffrey infantilizes her while pretending to be chivalrous. These are all masks of the same problem: patriarchal control dressed up in different outfits.

This eerie sameness begs the question—what does it mean to be a woman navigating a world that punishes you no matter how you behave? It’s not that all men are the same. It’s that power systems are.

The Tunnel and the Echo of Sisterhood

One of the film’s most unsettling—and revealing—sequences takes place in a dark tunnel. Harper explores the echo chamber, her voice reverberating outward like a choir of women in solidarity. It’s a moment of peace, of playful exploration. But it shatters the second a man appears, running toward her. The echoes stop. Fear replaces freedom.

It’s hard not to read this as a metaphor for womanhood in modern society: the potential for solidarity, community, and joy is always undercut by the looming threat of violence. What could have been a celebration of voice becomes a reason to run.

Mother Earth, Body Horror, and Rebirth

By the film’s final act, Men fully commits to its surrealism. The imagery turns grotesque and mythic. The naked man merges with nature, becoming a Green Man figure—roots, leaves, and death. He births himself, over and over, each time more grotesquely, until James finally re-emerges, broken and pitiful.

This disturbing cycle of self-replication and rebirth is Garland’s way of indicting patriarchy: it recreates itself, endlessly, violently, grotesquely. Men beget more men, and they all expect women to clean up the mess. But Harper? She just stares. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t scream. She says nothing.

Sometimes silence is its own kind of power.

Hospitality or Subjugation?

Even small scenes brim with layered meaning. Early in the film, Geoffrey insists Harper not carry her own luggage and instead sends her off to make tea. A gentleman’s gesture? Maybe. Or maybe it’s a soft kind of sexism, pushing her into a domestic role and denying her agency, even in the smallest choices.

It’s in these subtle moments that Men excels. Misogyny doesn’t always look like violence—it often hides behind manners.

Echoes of Mother! and Feminist Horror

It’s impossible not to compare Men to Darren Aronofsky’s Mother!—another feminist nightmare about a woman forced to give and give until there’s nothing left. Both films use the language of horror to criticize systems of oppression. Both punish their female protagonists for existing. And both ask us to look beyond literal plot to find meaning.

If you’re curious how Men fits into the wider trend of feminist horror, we explored similar themes in this breakdown of Swallowed, another bold exploration of identity, power, and fear.

The Final Scene: What Now?

After all the gore, after all the trauma, Harper’s friend arrives. Pregnant. Life goes on. The cycle breaks—or at least pauses. The final image suggests possibility, even hope.

But Men doesn’t offer easy answers. That’s the point. It’s a film of questions: What does it mean to be blamed for a man’s pain? What does healing look like when the world keeps reopening your wounds? What happens when you choose to no longer apologize?

So, What Does Men Really Mean?

In the end, Men is less about literal storytelling and more about feeling—the quiet dread of being watched, judged, blamed, and pursued. It’s not about individual men, but about the systems and myths that prop them up, the ones that go back to Eden and the first bite of fruit.

Jesse Buckley carries this movie with poise and fury, showing us a woman who refuses to be undone, no matter how many versions of toxic masculinity show up to wear her down. This isn’t about man-bashing or “wokeness.” It’s about calling the beast what it is.

Sometimes that beast is hiding in plain sight.

Want more horror analysis like this? Dive into Signal Horizon’s growing collection of horror explainers and reviews where horror meets meaning.