Cognitive dissonance is a valuable artistic tool, but there’s something especially fascinating about Sean Baker’s Red Rocket, which is one of the most enjoyably disturbing—and disturbingly enjoyable—movies I’ve seen in quite some time. On one level, it’s a blaring warning beacon—a chillingly persuasive portrait of exploitation and predation. Yet it’s also a pleasingly relaxed hangout comedy—a sun-kissed ode to the eternal pleasures of sex and drugs and NSYNC. It’s appalling and enthralling; I was aghast watching it and can’t wait to see it again.
The force of nature who provides Red Rocket with its queasy allure is Simon Rex, a journeyman actor and chiseled beefcake whom I’ve never seen before but will almost certainly be seeing again. Armed with a rippling chest and a wolfish smile, Rex plays the coyly named Mikey Saber, a washed-up porn star crawling back home to his impoverished roots in Texas City, where he attempts to shack up with his estranged wife (Bree Elrod); unable to secure legal employment thanks to the lengthy gap in his résumé (“You can call Brazzers and ask for a pay stub…”), he starts scratching out a living by selling weed to local oil riggers. He also manages to ingratiate himself with his wife and her couch-potato mother (Brenda Deiss), thanks to his rugged charm, not to mention his other talents. As his prior occupation suggests, Mikey is good with his dick and also slick with his words, which helps compensate for the black hole where his soul should be.
Baker has previously chronicled the banality of American sex work on both coasts: Starlet—which cast Mariel Hemingway’s daughter as an adult-film actress who befriended an elderly loner—and Tangerine—which examined two trans hustlers through the lens of an iPhone—both took place in seedy Los Angeles, while The Florida Project crossed the country and unfolded through the eyes of a six-year-old girl whose mother discreetly turned their motel room into a one-woman brothel. In so doing, he’s developed a consistent grammar: shooting on the cheap, focusing on underprivileged characters in sweltering environments, and relying heavily on untrained actors. The last of these preferences mars Red Rocket; a number of scenes in which Mikey interacts with his wife, her mother, or other locals have a stiff and hesitant quality that undermines the crispness of Baker’s writing (he penned the screenplay along with his regular collaborator Chris Bergoch).
But that scarcely matters, because the crucial relationship in the movie—the coupling that gives it its repellent, electric kick—is the one between Mikey and Raylee, the 17-year-old redhead who works the counter at a donut shop. Raylee, who’s nicknamed herself Strawberry and who’s played by the unnervingly poised model Suzanna Son, is both coquettish and aggressive, a demure child who doubles as a sexually assertive woman. In Mikey’s eyes, this makes her the ideal conquest, not just personally but professionally; he imagines her as his meal ticket back into pornographic stardom, and he quickly sets about seducing her with promises of instant cash and California sunshine.
From virtually any reasonable perspective—legal, moral, human—this is sickening stuff. Mikey’s pursuit of Raylee is textbook grooming; he flatters her, isolates her (her loserish quasi-boyfriend is an easily dispatched obstacle), and tantalizes her, gradually but persistently presenting her with a fantasy that blends romantic exclusivity with financial security. His motives are purely selfish, a fact he virtually admits to a starstruck neighbor (Ethan Darbone), regaling him with the specifics of his vulgar plan. It’s revolting how brazen his behavior is—that he infers from Raylee’s actions during sex her hidden hunger for threesomes is just one example of his demented logic—and it’s terrifying how compliant Raylee is in succumbing to it.
And yet, when this glinting predator and his bright-eyed prey share the screen, Red Rocket positively crackles with… chemistry? That isn’t quite right, because that implies amorous sparks flying, and the putative romance of this film is too toxic to be intoxicating. But there’s still an undeniable charge to their devilish dance, a helpless delirium of twisted desire. Baker allows their connection to intensify gracefully and naturally, and he’s aided in this regard by his extraordinary actors. Son, who’s 26 but looks younger, plays up Raylee’s vivacious side, which only sharpens her inherent vulnerability. And Rex is despicably mesmerizing (or maybe it’s mesmerizingly despicable), unleashing torrents of alpha-male charisma while quietly revealing just how pathetic Mikey really is; the scene where he apologizes to his wife for a preemptive betrayal, which Baker captures in a static wide shot, is a riot of masculine feebleness and sheepish excuse-making.
And if the movie’s opening stretch is prone to meandering, its final scenes confirm Baker’s gift for memorable endings. The closing images of The Florida Project constitute one of the greatest finales ever filmed; Red Rocket can’t quite match their sheer power, but it nevertheless delivers a pitch-perfect conclusion that majestically mixes fantasy with reality. Small wonder Baker keeps returning to the adult-film industry. As his career progresses, he keeps on redefining the money shot.
Grade: B+
Jeremy Beck is the editor-in-chief of MovieManifesto. He watches more movies and television than he probably should.