Election (1999)

As Netflix scrambles to stay ahead of its much-documented decline, it is easy to dismiss the onetime streaming behemoth’s abundance of original productions as Hail Mary distress signals. They throw so much optimized content at the increasingly overwhelmed viewer that it is impossible to determine what will truly stick, what films will puncture the noise of algorithmic promotion and bring something new and timely to the screen. After death scrolling the pits of categorized and recommended films, it takes a certain blind faith to press “play” on one that may (or may not) be worth your time. Do Revenge does more than earn the viewer’s time, it rewards them.

The film, directed by Jennifer Kaytin Robinson and co-written by Robinson and Celeste Ballard, amalgamates the sociopolitical commentary of Election with the dark Hitchcockian twists and turns of Strangers on a Train and the timely quintessence of Mean Girls. Do Revenge recapitulates the essence of the teen dramas of the mid-to-late nineties through the progressive and inclusive lens of 2022 to update the genre and make a case for authenticity. Where standoffish-ness and exclusivity previously determined the in-group, inclusivity and alliances now reign supreme.

Camila Mendes (reprising the archetypical role of the teenage “it” girl she portrays in Riverdale) stars as Drea, the alpha-female of her private school’s elite student body. She’s cutthroat and fabulous and the object of desire of every student who falls below her in the social pyramid. That is, until a sex tape, sent privately to her soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend, Max (Austin Abrams), is leaked during the summer between junior and senior year. After she punches Max in front of the student body, blaming him for the transgression, Drea finds herself in unfamiliar waters, suddenly deemed a social pariah; Max has been able to utilize his boundless social and monetary resources to recast himself as the victim, and win the sympathy of Rosehill High (the 1%’s choice private school in Miami) as well as the eccentric principal (played by Sarah Michelle Gellar in a nod to the film’s genre predecessors).

Enter Eleanor (Maya Hawke), a transfer student with an obscure past who befriends Drea before the start of senior year at tennis camp. Recognizing the shame of Drea’s social ostracization—Elanor is gay and recounts a story in which her first crush denied and cruelly outed her—Eleanor proposes they secretly team up and exact each other’s revenge, a narrative device transposed from Alfred Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train. Drea agrees and coaches Eleanor throughout her infiltration of Max’s circle while she pursues revenge on the socially fringe student, Carissa, who is culpable for Eleanor’s former suffering. The plot unfolds over the course of the student’s senior year through a series of pranks, betrayals, and battles of authenticity, co-narrated by Drea and Eleanor. Do Revenge delves into the daily concerns of high school students of the highest pedigree (awaiting Ivy League acceptances), as well as the sociopolitical commentary implicit in the microcosm of high school social stratification.

It would have been easy for the film to paint the sides of good and evil along familiar lines: Drea, the female student unjustly painted as the irrational aggressor alongside her gay accomplice in revenge; and Max, the popular, beloved male student at Rosehill High who has everyone wrapped around his finger as the untouchable villain. And while Drea and Eleanor’s aim remains corporeal, the film pinpoints a much larger, less tangible enemy.

Content Warning for Curse Words, Drugs and Violence

Where do I begin in describing all the reasons why Why Don't You Play in Hell? (2013) is such an essential watch? The humor is brilliant, and the performances are memorable. It’s wild and weird, filled with deliciously chaotic energy, and bloody, exaggerated violence.

Why Don't You Play in Hell? introduces us to the self-proclaimed “freakiest movie freaks in Japan.” There’s Director Hirata, the energetic, passionate leader; Miki, who is responsible for panning shots; Tanagawa, who captures the handheld shots; and Sasaki, their star who fights and dresses in the style of Bruce Lee. Together, they are known by the gleefully crass name, The F*ck Bombers. It’s no doubt that the scenes where the F*ck Bombers are present are the absolute best of the film. Hirata prays to the God of movies for the chance to create a perfect film, even if it means dying, and his passionate energy is infectious.

Muto is the leader of a local yakuza gang. Another yakuza gang attempts to assassinate him, but when the men arrive at his house, they find only his wife, who unleashes a torrent of violence upon the would-be killers. While much of the over-the-top violence is saved for the last half-hour, this gory whirlwind gives us an appetizer before the even wilder main course. For her literal overkill, Muto Shizue is sentenced to ten years in prison, but she is more upset that her bloodthirsty actions may lead to their daughter Mitsuko’s toothpaste commercial being removed from the air. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, the toothpaste jingle is such an earworm that it becomes a central in-universe meme.

In August of 2020, Rose McGowan (Jawbreaker, Planet Terror) accused director Alexander Payne (Election, Sideways) of sexual misconduct when she was a fifteen-year-old aspiring actress. McGowan has been outspoken about the “cult” of Hollywood — the power dynamic and hidden atrocities that come with it. Unless you have been avoiding all social media and news outlets for the past three years, you know that McGowan was one of the first and most prominent victims to speak out against Harvey Weinstein. Facing backlash and bombarded with questions like “Why didn’t you make it public earlier?” or “Why did you continue to work for him?” and so on, McGowan released a four-part documentary, Citizen Rose, as a means of explaining herself once and for all.

This series was filmed in 2017, during the same time that the New Yorker article by Ronan Farrow was published, beginning the outing of Harvey Weinstein, who McGowan refers to as the “monster”. In 1997, just after starring in Scream, a 23-year-old McGowan was raped by the Hollywood producer. For the next 20 years, McGowan lived with this (widely known) secret.

Citizen Rose deals with the aftermath of “coming out” as a victim. The importance of this series is the raw pain and conflict behind a woman speaking out against power. There are parts of Citizen Rose which weren’t my personal taste, but the themes of the series are new and refreshing. Especially in film and television, we often see the act of violence itself, but rarely are we given the perspective of the victim after the fact. Usually, the focus is on the criminal justice system, or even the effect on the accused, but rarely the trauma and pain of the victim for years after the event.

McGowan’s story is a textbook example of gaslighting. McGowan was ignored, vilified, and called crazy because of these accusations. When the Farrow article came out, and people understood that she was telling the truth the whole time, she then had to deal with the aftermath of being gaslit for so long. We see her navigate the initial trauma, along with the continued trauma produced by the public. While I adore Ronan Farrow as an investigator and writer, it is heartbreaking that the criminal justice system and the public needed him to “verify” the accounts of McGowan and the other women, who were ignored for so long. And people still wonder why women, and victims of sexual assault, don’t speak out.