Ana Lily Amirpour’s The Bad Batch isn’t a film that asks for easy consumption. It’s a fever dream of dystopia and desire, a sunburned nightmare that moves with hypnotic slowness, daring its audience to either surrender or turn away. Released in 2016, it blended grindhouse grit with arthouse ambition, anchored by striking visuals and a star-studded cast — Jason Momoa, Suki Waterhouse, Keanu Reeves, and Giovanni Ribisi. The result is messy, unsettling, and unforgettable.

The story follows Arlen (Suki Waterhouse), a young woman exiled to a desert wasteland reserved for society’s outcasts — the “bad batch.” Almost immediately, she’s captured by a community of cannibals led by the hulking Miami Man (Jason Momoa). After a brutal escape, Arlen drifts between survival, vengeance, and strange encounters, eventually crossing paths with a charismatic cult leader (Keanu Reeves) who rules a desert “paradise” with drugs, sex, and illusion.

Narratively, the film is sparse, almost skeletal. Dialogue is minimal, leaving long stretches of silence where the desert itself seems to speak. This emptiness is intentional — Amirpour strips away comfort, forcing viewers to feel the vastness of the wasteland and the hollowness of its inhabitants.

Suki Waterhouse delivers a quiet, resilient performance. Her Arlen isn’t a traditional heroine, but a survivor, stumbling through the desert with stubborn determination. Jason Momoa, massive and magnetic, plays Miami Man with surprising nuance — a cannibal, yes, but also an artist, a father, and a man clinging to fragments of humanity. Keanu Reeves slithers across the screen as a messianic cult figure, his calm, oily charm making him both seductive and sinister. Giovanni Ribisi pops up in eccentric bursts, embodying the madness of this broken world.

Visually, the film is its greatest triumph. Lensed with hallucinatory beauty, the desert becomes both hellscape and canvas, a place where neon parties and bleached skeletons coexist. Colors are saturated, heat shimmers blur the horizon, and every frame feels like a surreal painting.

The soundtrack is equally intoxicating, weaving dreamy synths, EDM pulses, and desert-scorched ballads. Amirpour uses music as lifeblood, letting it shape mood and momentum in the absence of traditional storytelling beats.

But The Bad Batch is divisive for a reason. Its slow pacing, elliptical plot, and refusal to offer clear resolution frustrate as much as they fascinate. For some, it’s an immersive mood piece; for others, a pretentious exercise. Yet even its critics often admit: it’s hard to forget.

At its core, the film is about what remains when society erases you. It’s about love in the ruins, about finding scraps of tenderness in a world that devours itself. The romance between Arlen and Miami Man — fragile, strange, and wordless — becomes the film’s quiet heartbeat.

The ending, ambiguous and understated, leaves viewers stranded like Arlen in the desert: unsure, uneasy, but oddly hopeful.

The Bad Batch is not a crowd-pleaser, but it was never meant to be. It’s an arthouse provocation dressed as a grindhouse thriller, a film that challenges as much as it mesmerizes.

In the end, whether you see it as a masterpiece or a mess, one truth remains: once you’ve walked into its wasteland, you don’t walk out the same.

Related movies :

Related movies :

Related movies :

Related movies :

Related movies :

Related movies :

Related movies :