Give this to Ti West: he completed the fastest trilogy in contemporary horror cinema history. Just two years after X introduced us to his gory take on the MCU—which would be the Maxine Cinematic Universe, named after porn star and Final Girl played by Mia Goth—West has cobbled together a triptych whose conceptual solidity and artistic merit are, if far from certain, at least worthy of debate. MaXXXineThe question is whether West has truly succeeded in carving out a niche of his own, or whether his series is just a (figuratively) bloodless exercise in received themes and aesthetics.
To go back to the original film: there was a lot to like in it. Xwhich was based on a sordid and conceptual premise, namely: “What if?” Boogie Nights were drenched in more crimson bodily fluids? – and used it to describe the practical and spiritual overlap between two related and unsavory forms of cinema (namely horror and porn). Nostalgia and corruption are a potent combination, and the spectacle of nubile, solipsistic exhibitionists being systematically eviscerated by the wizened, married farmers whose farm they had commandeered for an erotic film shoot was a nod to the traditions of the time. (For added ’70s resonance, there was even a cover of “Landslide.”) West’s ace up his sleeve, meanwhile, was hidden in plain sight: By casting Goth in dual roles as a tough-guy starlet and a catatonic, knife-wielding old woman—the latter seemingly envious of her younger doppelganger’s ripe flesh even as she stabs her—West tapped into a rich vein of grotesquerie that also dripped with melancholy.
The same relationship of sadism and anxiety is found in pearlwhich returns to the 1910s to document the eponymous villain’s formative years, as well as the adult film industry’s roots in the era of single-reel stag flicks. (Pearl, it seems, was born ready for her close-up.) Like its predecessor, West’s prequel was conceived primarily as a showcase for Goth, whose elongated physique and unsettling expressiveness made her something of an It Girl for directors at the forefront (or near the forefront) of cinematic provocation. (In addition to West, she’s collaborated with Lars von Trier, Claire Denis, Luca Guadagnino, and Brandon Cronenberg.) None of these diverse filmmakers has given the actor as much to work with as West, who clearly relishes putting his leading lady in outrageous situations, including assaulting her own mirror image, cosplaying as Dorothy in The Wizard of Ozand kiss a scarecrow – and watch it squirm, growl or fight its way out of it. To that end, pearl also gives its star a late, searing monologue that unfolds in one take, a bravura piece of writing that could be used in the future by aspiring genre ingénues, even if they’re unlikely to match Goth’s rubbery aplomb.
With that in mind, MaXXXine begins with an audition piece, a piece that recalls pearlThe central scene of the franchise and which sutures its themes into an increasingly complex franchise timeline. The setting is Los Angeles circa 1985, half a decade after the events of Xwho, as we see, have become mythological material for the tabloids. After fleeing the scene of the crime and escaping the authorities and his father, who strutted around in the Bible, X Through a series of fiery PSAs, Maxine has dyed her hair blonde, proven herself with her VHS collection, and become the darling of the local porn circuit. But what she really wants to do is play dress-up: After getting a reading for an upcoming religious horror film, our heroine channels her trauma into dialogue, Mulholland Drive Maxine has managed to impress the aspiring filmmaker (Elizabeth Debicki, deadpan) who has a daredevil spirit and is willing to take the risk of speaking to a stranger. But no sooner has Maxine realized her triumph than a mysterious figure, knowing her true identity, appears, brandishing threats of blackmail (or worse).
The mid-’80s setting gives West and his production designers a whole new set of textures to play with, and their recreation of Los Angeles is full of vivid, eye-catching details. (The neon-drenched streets deliberately evoke Brian De Palma’s seminal novel Double body (from 1984.) The setting also coincides with the grisly crimes of the “Night Stalker” — the Bay Area and Southern California serial killer whose media moniker made him the perfect bogeyman for an era colloquially known as “Morning in America.” In a staged montage featuring archival footage, West juxtaposes Richard Ramirez and Ronald Reagan, hinting, not so subtly, that on some level the president and the predator represented two sides of the same ideological coin, converging their energies in the so-called Satanic Panic that saw the Gipper’s evangelical base lash out in reactionary fury against what it perceived as the demonic influence of popular culture.
West has already made one film set in this era: the clever and chilling 2009 film The Devil’s Housewhich was also decorated in a period style without sacrificing shock and intensity (including one of the greatest murders of all time, starring a pre-star Greta Gerwig). On the other hand, the biggest problem with MaXXXine The problem is that the film is completely stuffed with pastiche. By putting everything in quotes, West ensures that nothing is actually scary, a miscalculation that dulls the film’s impact. The fake red carpet protests staged for the film’s premiere underscore this problem. When a film has to import its own outraged and embarrassed detractors, instead of giving the pious or censorious types something to shout about, it doesn’t bode well for any cult status.
Speaking of which: it is clear that one of West’s structural and tonal models is Once Upon a Time… in Hollywoodwhich isn’t a horror film but is nonetheless imbued with a sense of dread—think of the slow Spahn Ranch sequence, which blurs the genre’s archetypes (it’s a menagerie of hippies, cowboys, and serial killers) but never telegraphs where it’s going. MaXXXine‘s stalking and cutting scenes hit all the right targets – dark red YELLOW lighting; close-ups of black-gloved hands; blurry camcorder textures Lost Highway—but rarely transcends them. (One exception: a close encounter with a knife-wielding Buster Keaton impersonator who ends up getting his balls stomped on; I don’t know what West has against Keaton, but I didn’t see it coming.)
If there is a scene that symbolizes MaXXXineMaxine’s wasted promise comes halfway through: after injuring the private investigator (Kevin Bacon) hired by the invisible big bad to harass her, Maxine is shocked to see him on set, his nose bandaged like Jake Gittes in Chinese district. He chases her through a series of faux period sets to the front door of the Bates Motel, where… nothing happens. All that rich Hollywood iconography never coalesces into anything: It’s a hall of mirrors that reflects nothing but its creator’s frame of reference. (Though it’s nice to see West’s mentor Larry Fessenden on hand as a benevolent security guard—likely the first time the indie mainstay has been on a major studio set.) Some horror films thrive on incoherence, but if anything, MaXXXine is too self-aware for its own good: it’s a film driven almost entirely by plot, and it doesn’t help that the central mystery, particularly the identity of the silent, faceless figure who pursues Maxine at every turn, is so thin. If the best horror films make their climactic revelations both shocking and inevitable, MaXXXineThe story’s resolution is simply predictable – and disappointing given the larger hints of a grand narrative project.
In light of these flaws, it almost doesn’t matter that Goth takes up the screen as fully as she does – almost. MaXXXine is framed by a Bette Davis quote that explains that in show business, women have to be seen as freaks before they can be seen as stars, and Goth—who comes closer to having Bette Davis eyes than most of her generational cohort—conveys the right mix of virtuous self-control and sinister ambition to give the film’s coda some friction. pearlThe audaciously confrontational finale is clever and ambivalent, making us wish the film that accompanies it were more worthy of it. At the same time, the final shots shed some light on the ultimate artificiality of West’s project, which is ultimately nothing more than a series of exquisite corpses, well-made body doubles ready to be dissected and filed away in the overcrowded necropolis of genre cinema.
Adam Nayman is a Toronto-based film critic, teacher and author; his book The Coen Brothers: This book really connects the films together is available now from Abrams.