In the cesspool of Hollywood’s 2025 output, Honey Don’t! stands out as a particularly vile monument to creative bankruptcy.
Directed by some faceless studio hack who clearly traded their spine for a paycheck, this Margaret Qualley and Chris Evans-starring disaster is less a movie than a soapbox for preaching LGBTQ dogma while gleefully spitting on Christian values. If you thought Drive-Away Dolls was Ethan Coen’s low point, buckle up: Honey Don’t! makes that misfire look like The Passion of the Christ.
The plot—if you can call it that—follows Qualley as a free-spirited bisexual artist named Sage, who teams up with Plaza’s sardonic lesbian bartender, Riley, to scam a small-town megachurch led by Evans’ caricature of a pastor, Reverend Tommy. Their plan? Infiltrate the church’s “reparative therapy” program, expose its “hypocrisy,” and abscond with the congregation’s donation money to fund their hedonistic cross-country romp.
The film’s agenda is as subtle as a sledgehammer: Christianity is evil, queer identity is infallible, and morality is whatever feels good in the moment. It’s 90 minutes of smug propaganda masquerading as a comedy, with a script that feels like it was vomited out by a Reddit thread.
Let’s start with the elephant in the room: Honey Don’t! is a blatant assault on Christianity, painting believers as brainwashed bigots or closeted frauds. Reverend Tommy, played by a slumming Chris Evans, is a cartoon villain who sermonizes about “family values” while secretly lusting after Sage and Riley.
The film revels in this gotcha, as if exposing a pastor’s flaws somehow invalidates an entire faith. Every Christian character is either a hypocrite or a punchline, while the queer leads are sainted for their rebellion. It’s not storytelling; it’s a middle finger to anyone who dares hold traditional beliefs.
Qualley’s Sage is a walking stereotype—a manic pixie dream girl with a rainbow flag tattoo who spouts lines about “living her truth” with all the depth of a bumper sticker. Her Southern drawl, recycled from Drive-Away Dolls, is so over-the-top it could make Foghorn Leghorn blush. Plaza’s Riley fares no better, delivering quips with the enthusiasm of someone reading a teleprompter at gunpoint.
Her character’s entire personality boils down to smirking and seducing anything that moves, as if being a lesbian is a substitute for having a soul. Evans, bless his heart, tries to inject charm into Tommy, but the script shackles him to a role that’s less character than propaganda prop.
The film’s obsession with LGBTQ virtue-signaling is suffocating. Every scene screams, “Look how liberated we are!” as Sage and Riley hook up with random strangers, mock “Bible-thumpers,” and lecture about fluidity. If they’re not having sex, they’re talking about it, leaving no room for actual character development.
Like Drive-Away Dolls, Honey Don’t! mistakes degeneracy for depth, assuming audiences will cheer for its leads just because they’re queer. Spoiler: sexual orientation isn’t a personality, and this film’s failure to grasp that is its core flaw.
The humor? Imagine a stand-up routine written by a terminally online Gen Z activist. The gags—when they’re not recycling tired stereotypes about Christians—lean on crude innuendos and pop culture references so dated they make Ralph Nader jokes seem fresh. One scene features a psychedelic montage of the leads dancing with a drag queen Jesus (yes, really), which drags on for 15 minutes and serves no purpose beyond shouting, “We’re edgy!”
It’s the cinematic equivalent of a toddler throwing a tantrum for attention. Hollywood’s agenda here is painfully obvious. Honey Don’t! was greenlit to check diversity boxes, not to tell a story. Its anti-Christian narrative isn’t clever or subversive; it’s just mean-spirited, pandering to a niche audience that claps like trained seals for anything labeled “progressive.”
The film doesn’t even pretend to engage with faith or morality—it just vilifies one while deifying the other. The result is a movie so devoid of substance it makes Cats look like a masterpiece.
Technically, the film is a mess. The cinematography is flat, the editing is choppy, and the soundtrack—a mix of overplayed pop anthems and “ironic” gospel covers—feels like it was chosen by algorithm. The performances, while earnest, can’t salvage a script that prioritizes preaching over coherence.
Qualley and Plaza sleepwalk through their roles, while Evans looks like he’s regretting his life choices. Honey Don’t! is a cinematic abomination, a 90-minute lecture that insults its audience’s intelligence and faith. It’s not just bad—it’s aggressively, proudly bad, reveling in its contempt for half its potential viewers.
For those who value storytelling over propaganda, this film is a grim reminder of Hollywood’s creative rot. Save your money and your soul; skip this one.
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