‘Borderline’ Review: Pop Stardom Meets Unhinged Devotion

Horror cinema has become so codified and structurally predictable that when a film breaks away from the template, it’s hard not to welcome it. Borderline doesn’t quite work—it throws out a barrage of ideas, and at least half of them misfire—but it has the virtue of not resembling much else. At most, it feels akin to other scripts by its writer-director, Jimmy Warden, who previously penned another oddity like Cocaine Bear. Without going that far, this horror-comedy plays as a gleeful exercise in dark humor, tackling a subject usually treated in far more solemn terms: celebrity stalking.

Before even getting into the plot, the film’s web of personal connections is striking. Warden is married to Samara Weaving, who stars in the film, while Margot Robbie—a friend of the couple and, in real life, uncannily similar to the Ready or Not actress—serves as executive producer. But the most arresting connection comes from its co-lead: the obsessive stalker played by Ray Nicholson. Not only is he the son of Jack Nicholson, he doesn’t even try to downplay the resemblance here, openly channeling that same excessive, unpredictable, perpetually unhinged energy. It borders on imitation—part The Shining, part One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest—but because it feels almost genetic, it’s less distracting than it is fascinating.

Set in the 1990s—so much so that one can easily imagine it as a film from that decade, with Jack instead of Ray in the role—Borderline centers on Sofia (Weaving), a pop superstar at the height of her fame, living in a sprawling Hollywood Hills mansion clearly inspired—like the film’s title—by Madonna. The story, however, begins without her. Instead, we meet Paul (Nicholson), who shows up at the house as if it were his own, looking for his “girlfriend.” He’s stopped by Bells (Eric Dane), the security guard, who already knows him and humors him—briefly. Things escalate quickly: Paul stabs him and ends up confined to a mental institution. Bells survives.

When the film circles back to Sofia, she’s dating a basketball player named Rhodes (Jimmie Fails), loosely inspired by Dennis Rodman, who famously had a brief, intense relationship with Madonna. Sofia is portrayed as a diva drifting in her own bubble, focused primarily on her career, treating the NBA star as little more than a glamorous accessory. But when Bells learns that Paul has escaped, panic sets in. Everyone knows he’ll return—with a plan.

Parallel to this, Warden follows Paul as he gathers a small cohort of troubled followers from the institution, including the unhinged Penny (Portuguese actress Alba Baptista, stealing the film with a wildly stylized, French-accented performance) and the violent J.H. (Patrick Cox). As an early scene foreshadows, their shared goal is simple: to stage Paul and Sofia’s wedding—by any means necessary.

From the outset, Borderline operates in a heightened register. Performances are pitched to excess—Nicholson constantly flicking his eyebrows and flashing his grin in extreme close-up, Baptista channeling a kind of Harley Quinn energy—while the film embraces eccentric stylistic choices, oddball situations, and absurd supporting characters. There’s a cop who shows up to help but spends his downtime rehearsing a full choreography from the musical Top Hat (a scene Warden lets play out in its entirety), a montage set to “Crimson and Clover” (“I don’t hardly know her / But I think I could love her”), and a climactic musical sequence featuring an unhinged duet of a Celine Dion classic that has to be seen to be believed. It’s easily the standout moment in this otherwise erratic film.

The resolution doesn’t quite live up to the premise, and many of the choices scattered across its 90-minute runtime feel arbitrary, resulting in constant tonal whiplash that undercuts suspense. Still, those weaknesses are partly offset by the film’s peculiar inventiveness, its sense of humor, flashes of sharp dialogue, and its steady stream of ’90s pop culture references. It’s an uneven work—sometimes merely curious, sometimes genuinely inspired—that shows little interest in unpacking the psychiatric logic of its characters. This isn’t a film about mental health, nor does it seriously interrogate celebrity obsession; instead, it leans into the absurdity of its premise for entertainment.

“Paul’s elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top,” Penny tells Sofia—as if hers did. In a film where no one is entirely sane, the most unsettling note arrives through one of the many songs Warden uses as commentary: a cover of “Borderline,” originally by Madonna, performed in a slow, psychedelic register by The Flaming Lips. What once played like a straightforward pop tune reveals something far more sinister when stretched and reframed—“Somethin’ in the way you love me won’t let me be / I don’t want to be your prisoner so baby, won’t you set me free?”—a reminder that tone alone can transform the meaning of a story.