There are films about redemption, and then there are films about men who think they deserve it. Red Rocket (2021), directed by Sean Baker, is very much the latter. It’s a two-hour-long apology letter to the sleaziest guy at your high school reunion—the one who peaked during the Bush administration and now wants you to invest in his CBD pyramid scheme. He’s loud. He’s manipulative. He wears tank tops unironically. And in this case, he’s played by Simon Rex, an actual ex-porn star playing a fictional ex-porn star, which makes for some clever stunt casting and exactly zero emotional depth.
Let’s not sugarcoat it: Red Rocket is a film that rubs Vaseline on the lens of poverty, slathers baby oil on the face of exploitation, and then expects you to clap while it does backflips on a crusty motel mattress. Critics called it “raw,” “unflinching,” and “a timely portrait of American decay.” Let me translate: It’s a greasy, meandering mess that spends 128 minutes following a human red flag through the worst town in Texas like it’s Citizen Kane with cigarette burns.
We begin with Mikey Saber (Rex), a washed-up adult film actor who returns to his hometown of Texas City—essentially if meth had a zip code—after burning every bridge in Los Angeles. He shows up looking like a sunburnt scarecrow and wheedles his way into the home of his estranged wife Lexi (Bree Elrod) and her chain-smoking mother, who are so beaten down by life they don’t even flinch when a literal porn star shows up on their floral couch smelling like regret.
Mikey’s a talker. He could sell sand in the Sahara—or at least try, then demand a tip. But for all his fast-talking charisma, there’s an oily desperation clinging to him like the sweat stains on his tank top. He’s a narcissist. A manipulator. A conman with a smile as empty as his résumé. He’s not a tragic anti-hero. He’s a walking lawsuit with a six-pack.
From here, the film does what all Sean Baker films do: it meanders. Mikey gets a job selling weed and pills. He bikes around town shirtless. He scams his way into money, sex, and attention while the camera follows him like a nervous parole officer. It’s all presented in that now-predictable Baker style: real locations, non-professional actors, natural lighting, and the kind of authenticity you usually get from gas station coffee.
And then… she arrives.
Strawberry (Suzanna Son), the 17-year-old cashier at the local donut shop with bubblegum lips and a vaguely tragic backstory. Mikey locks eyes with her and instantly decides she’s his ticket back to the big leagues. “She could be a star,” he says, which is code for “I’m about to ruin another life and call it ambition.”
Let’s be clear: this storyline is gross. Not edgy. Not thought-provoking. Just gross. Watching a 40-something burnout groom a teenager for the adult film industry while the film tiptoes around the implications like it’s afraid of catching a lawsuit is nauseating. Baker doesn’t condemn Mikey. He doesn’t glorify him either. He just… lets him exist. And maybe that’s the problem.
The film wants you to “observe without judgment,” but guess what? Judgment is healthy. Judgment is earned. And watching a creep manipulate a teenager with promises of porn stardom isn’t morally ambiguous—it’s predatory. Just because you shoot it during golden hour doesn’t make it beautiful. It just makes it sweaty and unethical.
Simon Rex is undeniably charismatic in a way that makes you want to hide your wallet. He plays Mikey with the unearned confidence of a man who once had a MySpace fan club and won’t let you forget it. He struts, he smirks, he monologues like a guy who once read The Art of the Deal and thinks it counts as therapy. But charm without depth is just noise. By the third time he’s begging someone for a ride, you wish someone would throw him in the trunk instead.
The rest of the cast ranges from solid (Elrod’s Lexi is bitter and brittle in the right ways) to amateur-hour (half the scenes feel like they were shot during smoke breaks). But Baker’s obsession with casting “real people” often backfires here—authenticity is great, but you still need actors who can act, not just look appropriately miserable under fluorescent lighting.
The film’s pacing is a slow drip of bad decisions and awkward encounters, like watching a toilet back up in real time. The plot, such as it is, lurches toward a conclusion that’s as predictable as it is empty: Mikey ruins everything, burns every bridge, and slinks off into the night like a cockroach looking for a new apartment to infest. There’s no catharsis. No justice. Just more running.
Baker tries to frame this as a “satire of the American dream,” a portrait of a nation that rewards grift over grit. But really, it’s just a portrait of one deeply unlikeable man who keeps getting second chances because he’s too slippery to drown. It’s less Death of a Salesman and more Death of Shame.
The cinematography—again, Baker’s signature gritty-neon aesthetic—is fine. Texas looks hot, broken, and vaguely radioactive. The soundtrack is a nostalgic mess of pop songs that feel like they were ripped from a 2001 middle school dance. There are moments of beauty, sure. But they’re buried under layers of flop sweat and moral ambiguity so thick you need a chisel and a tetanus shot.
Final Verdict?
Red Rocket is a film that wants you to stare into the greasy soul of America’s underbelly and feel something profound. Instead, you mostly feel sticky. It’s a story about exploitation that flirts too hard with being exploitative itself. It’s got style, sure—but no substance. Watch it if you enjoy watching men self-destruct with zero consequences or if you’ve ever said, “I love movies that make me feel deeply uncomfortable and also bored.”
Everyone else? Skip the donut shop. Burn the tank top. Let Mikey Saber ride his busted bike into the sun alone. And close the blinds on your way out.
