The resurgence of Trump is presenting significant challenges for Hollywood, as illustrated by a rather absurd new thriller that has just hit the screens.
History and current events have shown us that autocracy is not only harmful but can also be quite dull. For every dramatic uprising in places like Minneapolis, there lurk quieter, yet equally menacing threats, such as Kash Patel’s FBI retrieving voting records from Fulton County, Georgia—a state that Donald Trump lost by a mere 12,000 votes in the 2020 election. Similarly, the gradual adoption of a lengthy 900-page plan by the powerful right-wing think tank, the Heritage Foundation, doesn't lend itself to the thrilling narratives we often see in blockbuster films. The crux of the issue lies in how to portray the understated yet dangerous reality unfolding in the United States: this crisis does not culminate in a dramatic explosion but instead unfolds through voter manipulation and federal interference that erodes trust in the democratic system.
I mention this after spending a week consuming films that resonate within the context of Trump’s America. Most of these flicks are heavy on action but light on the nuanced details that lead to such chaotic situations. The latest film, "Anniversary," released this week on Netflix—which has become less interested in the complexities of any narrative—portrays a dystopian United States where a nefarious right-wing mastermind, depicted as an attractive young woman, persuades the nation to abandon democracy through the unlikely medium of an inspiring book of essays.
Surprisingly, I found the first half of the film quite engaging. Diane Lane stars as a centrist mother and political scientist from Georgetown University, who strives to keep her family and the national conversation intact. At its core, it serves as a domestic drama interspersed with elements of authoritarianism for beginners. What’s particularly clever is how it portrays an Orwellian assault on democracy, using rhetoric that frames diversity as a threat to "togetherness" and "unity"—a notion that feels very relevant today.
The book of essays featured in the film is titled "The Change," which may be a veiled reference to Project 2025, the obscure right-wing agenda published by the Heritage Foundation that is currently being implemented in Washington. However, the film glosses over the intricate details of how a New York Times bestseller could lead to a breakdown of the electoral system, resulting in a society where subversive comedians are pursued across bodies of water by paramilitary forces, while drones threaten citizens in their own backyards after dark.
If I come off as a bit of a buzzkill, I sincerely apologize. It’s not the role of the creative sector to act as political propagandists, although we do have the Melania documentary for that purpose. Nevertheless, what strikes me is that this oversight seems more a matter of imagination than politics. Take, for instance, Hulu's adaptation of "The Handmaid’s Tale," which powerfully conveys the horrors of Gilead precisely because it meticulously outlines the bureaucratic steps that led the U.S. to such a dystopian reality.
With this perspective in mind, after enduring the second half of "Anniversary," I turned my attention to Alex Garland’s 2024 film "Civil War," which envisions a United States where three states have seceded under a strongman president serving an illegal third term. Initially, I was quite critical of this film upon its release, especially since it coincided with the Supreme Court hearing arguments regarding the January 6 riots. Despite the film's intriguing elements—such as Florida unexpectedly joining a secessionist movement for completely unrelated reasons—the overall apolitical tone felt evasive.
You could almost sense the lackadaisical attitude of the film’s creators when tackling the political science aspects, mirroring the fatigue that many American voters experience. It is always easier to focus on the explosive segments.
So, what are we left with? There’s Paul Thomas Anderson’s critically acclaimed "One Battle After Another," which differs from the previous two films in that it portrays a current America gripped by a ruthless military force intent on pursuing "illegals"—essentially reflecting our present state rather than depicting a future dystopia. I have never been particularly fond of Anderson’s work, but I found this film refreshing, especially Sean Penn's chilling performance as Colonel Steven J. Lockjaw, a psychopathic officer reminiscent of the border patrol official Greg Bovino. By holding up a mirror to our current predicament, the film makes a future reign of terror feel all too believable.
Interestingly enough, despite being a lesser film compared to "One Battle After Another," it was "Civil War" that truly resonated with me. This film operates within a quaint, pre-ICE symbolic framework, where even amidst civil unrest, the primary external reference remains to "Charlottesville"—a moment in time when the most pressing threat to the U.S. was an assembly of tiki-torch-wielding individuals marching for fascism, armed with supplies from Bed Bath & Beyond. Initially, when "Civil War" was released, its sketchy details led viewers to comfortably think, "this could never happen here." Yet, the landscape of our country has shifted since then, and despite its shortcomings, this time the on-screen violence felt alarmingly and disturbingly close to home.
