‘The Drama’ Review: Zendaya & Robert Pattinson Twist the Romantic Comedy Into a Dark Moral Puzzle

The rougher edges of Scandinavian sensibility collide with the more familiar mechanics of the American romantic comedy in The Drama, one of the strangest mainstream films to come out of Hollywood in recent years—perhaps since Challengers, by Luca Guadagnino, which also starred Zendaya. In the hands of Norwegian director Kristoffer Borgli—whose previous films include Sick of Myself and Dream Scenario—the movie blends the abrasive emotional intensity typical of Nordic drama with a lighter surface that initially resembles a conventional rom-com, only to drift into something far stranger and unexpectedly political.

Talkative and restless, The Drama begins as a comedy about a couple navigating the usual pre-wedding anxieties—logistical mishaps, social tensions, and the minor crises that come with organizing a major event. But gradually, the tone thickens. Were it not for the presence of Robert Pattinson and Zendaya, this would likely feel like a small-scale indie (it is, in fact, produced by A24). Their star power, however, pushes it into the mainstream—where it’s bound to provoke friction and divided reactions.

The premise is simple. Charlie (Pattinson, leaning into his tendency to play jittery, high-strung characters) works at a museum. One day, he spots a woman in a café, looks up the book she’s reading, and awkwardly strikes up a conversation. Emma (Zendaya) ignores him; he leaves embarrassed, only to later realize she is deaf in one ear and had been listening to music in the other. Misunderstandings lead to connection, and soon they are dating. But the film skips over the relationship itself: what we’ve been watching turns out to be a flashback, recounted by Charlie to his friend Mike (Mamoudou Athie) while preparing his wedding speech. The couple is about to get married.

One night, while walking through the city, Charlie and Emma spot the DJ hired for their wedding using drugs. The next day, during a dinner with Mike and his girlfriend Rachel (Alana Haim) to sample the wedding menu, the subject comes up. What begins as casual conversation turns into an uncomfortable question: What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done? Everyone has a story—Rachel’s is notably dark—but nothing compares to Emma’s. Visibly drunk, she confesses that as a teenager she nearly carried out a school shooting.

The revelation shocks the group—especially Charlie, who had never heard this before. As Emma provides more details, the unease deepens. Borgli visualizes these memories through flashbacks, showing a very different Emma (“I used to be ugly,” she says) as a bullied teenager, spiraling into violent fantasies, taking her police officer father’s rifle, and meticulously planning an attack she ultimately did not carry out. From that moment on, nothing is the same. The film shifts its focus to how the couple—especially Charlie—tries to move forward with the wedding as if nothing has changed.

At this point, The Drama becomes a moral drama—an issue-driven film concerned with how people process and respond to disturbing truths. Rachel, in particular, turns firmly against Emma. But the central conflict lies with Charlie, who tries to rationalize the confession as something in the past, something that can be contextualized or forgiven. Yet he finds himself unable to move on, emotionally paralyzed. His confusion begins to affect his own behavior, leading him into increasingly problematic situations. Inevitably, the film builds toward a wedding as chaotic and emotionally explosive as the one in Wild Tales.

Up to a late twist that somewhat arbitrarily reframes the debate, the film operates as an increasingly dark comedy about relationships. It asks a series of uncomfortable questions: how well do we really know the people we love? What are we willing to tolerate—or forgive—about their past? And in a time defined by political polarization and moral absolutism, the film touches a nerve: would we abandon someone we love for something they once did—or almost did?

Not all of Borgli’s choices land. Many scenes feel overextended, circling the same argument in slightly different variations. More problematically, the film draws uneasy equivalences between the planned school shooting and later revelations that belong more to the realm of private moral failings. The only real common thread is the idea of having “come close” to doing something wrong without following through. Treating these as morally comparable weakens the film’s central argument, even if it heightens its dramatic intensity.

Even as it grows darker, however, the film never loses its sense of humor. Borgli handles this tonal balance with irreverence and formal playfulness, using jittery staging and abrupt editing to energize what is, at its core, a highly talkative, almost theatrical narrative. The wedding sequence itself recalls The Celebration in the escalating discomfort generated by each speech. There’s a perverse pleasure in watching the group’s apparent stability unravel, as buried secrets surface one by one.

Zendaya and Pattinson continue to establish themselves as two of the most adventurous international stars working today—much like Kristen Stewart did a few years ago—using their commercial appeal to support auteur-driven or unconventional projects. Pattinson, in particular, has backed filmmakers such as Claire Denis, David Cronenberg, Bong Joon-ho, the Safdie brothers, Brady Corbet, and Ciro Guerra. Not all of those collaborations work—and neither do all his performances—but his ability to move between blockbuster fare like The Batman and more idiosyncratic cinema remains noteworthy.

Still, the film’s most powerful asset is Zendaya, who emerges here as the stronger performer. There’s something in Emma’s calm, warm, and open demeanor that sharply contrasts with her troubled past—not just physically, but emotionally. In a move that feels almost provocative in today’s punitive cultural climate, The Drama makes a genuine effort to understand its protagonist. More than that, it argues—quietly but insistently—that people can change, that the darkest impulses of adolescence don’t necessarily define who someone becomes. That idea, perhaps more than any other, is the film’s most compelling: the possibility of starting over.