As much as I love indulging in a thirty-eight movie binge over the ten days of the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF), I can also readily admit that no person can accomplish that task without having suffered some occasional mental lapses. By about the fifth or sixth day, your patience starts to wear thin, and your ability to mentally interact with a film becomes increasingly harder. That situation becomes exacerbated for the mid-day screenings, after the sugar rush from the Tim Horton’s donuts has worn off, and before the adrenaline rush that comes from a star-studded red carpet evening premiere.

Hedda was one of those films this year that got the brunt of that unfortunate scenario. Literally smacked in the middle of my tenure at the Canadian city (on my busiest day, I might add), Nia DaCosta’s reimagining of the famed Henrik Ibsen stage play was given the unfair disadvantage of having to jump a few extra hurdles in order to overcome my impending brain fog. However, I would like to point out that, over the years, several films have passed that test with flying colors, including some of my favorites like The Beast and April. For all its glitz and glamour, Hedda will not be joining those gilded ranks.

Comparisons to Babylon will be inevitable, save for the extreme hedonism that Damien Chazelle resurfaced, and Old Hollywood would not like you to investigate further. Hildur Guðnadóttir’s jazzy score is as loud and showy as Justin Hurwitz’s was, offering an exclamation point to every bit of rumor and twist of the metaphorical knife. The mansion that serves as the film’s sole location is decadent, with DP Sean Bobbitt flaring up the screen with sumptuously oversaturated colors. The camera swoons from room to room, climbing staircases and windows to capture every lush costume.

Hedda may be a classier bit of chaos, but it still comes packed with incredibly thorny characters. Hedda Gabler (Tessa Thompson) is rambunctious and easily bored with life, which makes her prone to stirring up a bit of drama. Her husband, George (Tom Bateman), has bought an exorbitantly priced mansion to keep their marriage afloat for just a little longer, and to slyly muscle his way into the next rung of the upper class. A grand party is how they’ve chosen to open their doors, with everyone invited to dance, drink, and destroy.

DaCosta keeps this twisted chess game moving with the energy of a dance, pushing the noise and editing to their highest tempo. One minute, the guests are all downing shots at the bar; the next minute, they’re skinny dipping in the lake. Every move is carefully choreographed by both DaCosta and Hedda, the latter using this opportunity to exert control over the life she’s shamefully lost grip of. The American-born Thompson sports a British accent, piercing every polite conversation with a venomous jab. Hedda’s former lover, Eileen Lovborg, is up to that unenviable challenge, with Nina Hoss fearlessly cutting through the cast with a performance that positively recalls the best of Jessica Lange.

Despite having all the right ingredients, the vibes of this proverbial party feel off. Maybe it’s the wasting of the rest of the cast besides Thompson and Hoss, or the inescapable feeling that this version of the titular character should be much more entertaining than she is written. A lot of topics are introduced, including gender, race, and sexuality. But rarely are they explored to their fullest depths, preventing this soirée from being anything more than a one-night affair.