A system established to maintain law and order unable to fascinate despondent impoverished crime, unemployment and ethnocentricity leaving generations mired in conflict, comatose, incendiary lesions, verbosely segregating consensus.
Violence and combat, strict hierarchical discipline, the police and the gangs aware of respective rubrics, alcohol and drugs lubricating the malaise.
A darkness, the light shining through with jaded poignancy, a vague uncompromising chaotic fluency masterfully stylizing Triple 9's streetwise ambivalence, audience and characters alike captivatingly lost in the foundationless congestion, wherein knowledge contends with principle, loyalty confides through betrayal, a job well done receives no recompense, longings to escape clash with professional competencies, the coerced crushed and pessimistic, the dedicated withdrawn yet conscientious, financial versus spiritual freedom, skilfully blended in enticing multidimensional haze.
One last job.
A covert team including law enforcement personnel forced to take it.
Triple 9's diverse, its complicated script examining international and local crime with members of the aforementioned team playing different roles for opposing sides.
Multiple plot threads with minor characters make lasting impressions thanks to the clever yet chill synthesis of performance, script, editing and direction.
It doesn't have to make statements about why a less violent sociopolitical climate would be more beneficial, it lets its hardboiled yet relatable characters and situations speak ethical volumes, progression in presentation, dynamic sociocultural c(l)ues.
Like Mad Max: Fury Road, there's no centre of attention, no leading role(s), instead it capably assembles more than a dozen strong actors and gives them room to construct a team, thereby formally advocating for inclusivity by demonstrating how reliable a group of self-sacrificing multiracial teammates can be.
Neither sentimental nor sensational.
Love the John Hillcoat.
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