Bulan: Juni 2025

“Misty Green,” Chris Rock’s ferociously smart and darkly entrancing new movie, unfolds as a series of rude awakenings. One takes place in a hospital after a drunk-driving accident; another at a far-flung desert resort, in an ugly morning-after haze. But most of them occur in a Santa Monica beachside apartment, where Misty Green (Rosalind Eleazar), a down-on-her-luck actor in her late thirties, has been squatting since the death of its owner, her wealthy, older, married boyfriend, about a year ago. In an early scene, Misty is jolted awake by the man’s furious widow, Celine (Amy Landecker), who has just discovered the apartment on her husband’s ledgers and is intent on kicking out his mistress. Misty, still groggy from the latest of many boozy, coked-up nights, begs for some time to get her stuff together and find a new place. And Celine, surprisingly, gives it to her. She hadn’t recognized Misty at first, not until she noticed an Emmy statuette in the living room—the one that the actor won years ago, in 2009, for a supporting role on an airline-themed TV series, “The Red Eye.” “Oh, my God, I remember you,” Celine says. “You were the Black one!”

In an industry town, celebrity still wields a potent allure, even when faded, bedraggled, and accosted in a bra and fish-net tights. Misty’s lingering fame is one of a few cards she has left to play; her undiminished talent as an actor is another. One of the wry ironies of the movie, which Rock both wrote and directed, is that Misty’s abilities may have been a mixed blessing, thrusting her early on into the glare of a spotlight that she has since struggled to hold on to. After the initial waves of acclaim and success inevitably crested, Misty crashed hard. Sex, drugs, and alcohol flowed and kept flowing her way, even as roles dried up. She became an on-set liability—punching a crew member, sleeping with a co-star—which eclipsed her reputation for doing good work. Now she faces the threat of eviction: Celine has given her a week to move out. “Misty Green,” an acrid show-biz satire that reaches for, and nearly achieves, the weight and grandeur of tragedy, is also a countdown thriller, with a day-by-day structure that brings Misty’s past, present, and future into fateful collision. Her tough personal history comes into focus even as she flails in search of a career-reigniting comeback.

The most successful ever, spans thirty-odd games—many of which are very good—and has spawned multiple live-action film adaptations and television shows, nearly all of which have been terrible. The games, which follow the survivors of a zombie outbreak induced by a corporate bioweapon, popularized a genre known as survival horror, in which a normie character—as opposed to the typical overpowered hero—must carefully navigate a dangerous environment, conserving ammo and other resources, solving puzzles, and evading enemies almost as often as fighting them. (One can imagine how this would appeal to a certain kind of personality.) These games, alongside their first film adaptation, in 2002, helped revive the zombie-film genre, which had peaked in 1978 with George Romero’s “Dawn of the Dead,” before dying out in the late nineteen-eighties, as audiences moved on to smarter monsters: vampires, serial killers, Chucky.

Today, the Resident Evil franchise holds the record for the most live-action films based on a video-game series. The movies occupy a strange cultural position, though, making up a commercially successful franchise with basically zero critical acclaim. Salon described the first installment as “mildly grisly, assaultively noisy and tremendously boring”; Roger Ebert put the film and its sequel, “Resident Evil: Apocalypse,” on his most-hated-films list. The movies have been most controversial among fans of the games because of their distance from the original source material. (It certainly didn’t help that the writer and director, Paul W. S. Anderson, created a new protagonist for his films, an ass-kicking yet spiritually empty heroine named Alice—played by Milla Jovovich, his wife.) Hollywood has long puzzled over the problem of video-game adaptations: change the plot too much and alienate the fans; hew too closely to the game and alienate the masses. Either way, these adaptations—even the well-respected ones, such as “The Last of Us,” on HBO, or “Fallout,” on Prime Video—necessarily lack the thing that makes a video game enjoyable: the experience of playing it.