The ‘80s have a reputation as a decade of excess, a quality MaXXXine embraces to a fault: The third installment in Ti West’s trilogy of loosely connected slasher-ish horror movies has the unfocused enthusiasm of a coked-up producer throwing out ideas at a party. It could be, and probably will be, described as a “love letter” to a lot of things: Video stores, practical effects, porn, true crime, Hollywood, giallos, video nasties, the Universal backlot, a sort of dark-mirror take on the concept of “movie magic” in general. And sure, all of those elements are present in the film. But it doesn’t linger long enough, or go deep enough, to show much of an interest in any of them.
A lot and very little happens, as our plucky and tough-minded heroine—played, once again, by Mia Goth, who also serves as a producer—continues climbing the splinter-covered ladder of fame towards her delusional destiny. In the opening scene, she strides confidently onto a soundstage to audition for a horror movie from controversial female director Elizabeth Bender (Elizabeth Debicki). After some objectifying banter, Maxine stares down the camera and delivers a tearful, trembling monologue that proves that she’s more than just someone who “fucks on film.” She gets the part.
Then her Hollywood ending is threatened by an anonymous blackmailer who turns out to be private dick John Labat (Kevin Bacon). A very wealthy man has hired Labat to remind Maxine of her role in what a newspaper clipping calls “The Texas Porn Star Massacre” (a.k.a. the events of X), and the longer she refuses to talk to detectives Torres (Bobby Cannavale) and Williams (Michelle Monaghan) about it, the more people in her orbit are going to die. This very wealthy man is also connected to a Mulholland Drive-esque network of powerful perverts, which will come into play later on as Maxine and her “agent” Teddy Night (Giancarlo Esposito, in an endearingly bad wig) launch an investigation of their own.
Maxine’s scandalous profession gives West the opportunity to add a sticky coating to a film that’s set, at least in part, on the sleaziest street in America. (That would be Hollywood Boulevard, whose unique blend of tourist traps and trashy hedonism is captured in a typically slick montage.) And he does apply it in a pair of scenes: One backstage at a porn studio, and one set in a peep show booth that pays tribute to Cruising and Hardcore. But then West moves on, reducing the titillating and aesthetically pleasing world of ‘80s adult entertainment behind.
Pastiche is West’s thing, and sometimes he does it masterfully. The House Of The Devil perfectly captures the vibe of late ‘70s and early ‘80s horror, and X dials into Tobe Hooper’s nasty Southern-fried wavelength specifically and accurately enough to make it an enjoyable ride. By comparison, MaXXXine’s nods to the mid-‘80s are unrefined: At one point, Mia Goth beats up Kevin Bacon as “St. Elmo’s Fire” plays on the soundtrack. It’s as obvious as a splatter of blood across a row of VHS tapes—another image that actually appears in this movie.
There’s also a thread of news broadcasts about “Night Stalker” Richard Ramirez that should connect, either literally or thematically, to Maxine’s story, but never quite gets there. The art direction mimics urban grime without truly capturing it, and the application of 4:3 VHS framing and digital analog fuzz is more haphazard than one might expect. MaXXXine’s shallowness might be an intentional evocation of the crudity and artifice of Hollywood compared to the homegrown grit of Maxine’s origins, but that’s an awfully galaxy-brain take. The simpler explanation is that it reflects the mainstreaming of this franchise, and of its studio A24 as a whole.
The one area of the film where the craft is exquisite is the practical gore effects. Most of MaXXXine passes in a pleasant-enough blur of familiar faces and nostalgic hits. But time stops whenever the camera lingers on, say, blood pouring out of the bottom of a car crusher or a suitcase full of severed limbs falling down a flight of stairs. These breathtakingly grisly shots are frustrating, because they prove that West’s savage streak is still there—it just gets lost amid a disjointed jumble of ideas and influences that doesn’t seem to know where it’s going or why. Even the protestors who follow Maxine around don’t know exactly what they’re mad about, leaving Goth’s single-minded tenacity stuck moving the movie forward.
Some of MaXXXine’s many elements are fun, but never ascend beyond that. Take Debicki’s domineering turn as the provocateur filmmaker of Maxine’s big break, The Puritan 2: Midway through the film, there’s a scene where Debicki smears blood on Lily Collins’ mouth, then shakes hands with Goth. The moment feels like it should be erotic. But the actors stand there, hesitating, posed like figures in a diorama of lust that’s studied, but not felt.
And for a film series whose greatest moments come when its leading lady is allowed to be her most passionately unhinged self, emptiness is a disappointing end point. For all these films’ paeans to grime and sleaze, they’re controlled imitations rather than the uninhibited real thing. The only time things get messy is when someone’s head explodes, and those are the moments that connect. Maybe the slickness of MaXXXine’s ‘80s setting is what brought this quality to the series, or maybe it was there all along. Either way, it’s a letdown.