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Good Times
Netflix takes a classic sitcom, Good Times, and turns it into a vulgar, violent, sexually-charged TV-MA show.
Thomas Jefferson once wrote, “The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.”
The New Founding Fathers of America would amend that statement a bit: The tree of liberty, they’d say, must be indeed refreshed with blood—just not with theirs.
As chronicled through four movies so far and, now, this television show, the ruling party of this alternate America has sponsored a national “holiday” called the Purge. Once a year for 12 hours, pretty much all crime, including (perhaps especially?) murder, is legalized. The NFFA says that it’s really a corrective and cathartic night, an opportunity to shed our civilized selves and indulge in a night of unfettered passion and rage.
But the victims often aren’t patriots or tyrants, but rather the poor and disenfranchised. While NFFA members and their well-heeled supporters lock themselves behind high-tech security and well-armed guards, America’s working class nails plywood over its windows. The destitute, of course, can’t even do that: They’re on their own, taking their chances on the streets with marauders determined to spill as much blood as they can.
And that, too, is by design, if not stated quite so baldly. Whether the NFFA actually believes the country needs a night of killing for its emotional health is, perhaps, debatable; but it sure is an effective way to shorten the welfare lines.
The Purge is well established as USA’s depiction of it opens in the first season. The NFFA is expecting “record participation,” and most everyone’s Purge-night plans are locked and loaded.
Take Albert Stanton, a rich benefactor for the NFFA. He throws a glamorous Purge party every year—one with a few surprises. While Rick and Jenna find the concept of the Purge fairly repugnant, they could hardly turn down Stanton’s invitation, not when he dangles a huge donation to their nonprofit homeless initiative as a special party favor.
Rick knows that they’re making a “deal with the devil,” but only in an effort to make the country a little less infernal, he and Jenna rationalize. “You’re taking the devil’s money,” Jenna tells him. “We’re going to do great things with it.” But the Purge’s diabolical mechanizations, they learn, aren’t so easily fooled.
Financial exec Jane Barber plans to spend the Purge safely ensconced in her high-rise office building with her team, working through the night on a very important deal. But that doesn’t mean the Purge doesn’t hold its attraction for her. After all, Jane’s field can be pretty cutthroat. And when there’s an opportunity to cut a few real throats to get a better office, well, what’s the harm? To her, I mean.
Then there’s young Penelope. She and her brother, Miguel, lost their parents to the Purge not so long ago. Afterward, she apparently lost herself in a haze of substance abuse. But she’s since joined a religious movement that promises something better: meaning and serenity. Now, she’s about to take the last step on her spiritual journey: offering herself up as a living, suffering sacrifice to the sin-filled killers on the streets. So Miguel’s racing through those same bloody streets searching for her, trying to rescue his sister from martyrdom before it’s too late.
A bit like the Purge itself, The Purge franchise embraces two primary purposes for viewers.
First, it aims to serve as bloody social commentary. Using a hyper-violent hyperbole, it draws our attention to the way the poor and disenfranchised are sometimes overlooked and abused. And while the flag-draped NFFA is a fictional party, you don’t need to squint too hard to see some political leanings and commentary in The Purge.
Second, the franchise wants to give its fans the bloody, bleak horror experience they’ve come to expect. Whatever messages The Purge arguably tries to convey are often undercut by its own bloodlust. The series, like the movies that spawned it, shocks and titillates with its overweening violence. Even as the franchise apparently stands aghast at the Purge’s grotesque excesses, it wallows in those same excesses. (Funny how some cultural apologists today argue that violent entertainment provides an outlet for our bestial tendencies—a release valve, if you will—that’d otherwise show up in much worse places in real life. That’s pretty much the same argument that the NFFA makes, too.)
This USA series doesn’t seem quite as political as its big-screen forebears, at least early on. It seems more interested in how the Purge has impacted and corrupted society as a whole, and some of the unintended consequences it’s unleashed. For example, the idea of a cult predicated on the purge—and how its members might sacrifice themselves for what they deem a “greater good”—was a narrative wrinkle I hadn’t anticipated.
But, of course, the franchise can’t and won’t leave the trail left by its inherently bloody footprints. This USA show is predicated on wanton, indiscriminate killing, sometimes in the most violent of ways. Moreover, the fact that the network has so much more time to unpack a Purge, we get to know the characters better and their sometimes unseemly pasts. (In the inaugural episode, for instance, we see lots of graphic flashbacks to a pretty graphic ménage à trois.)
I can’t say whether Thomas Jefferson was right about what it takes to fertilize the tree of liberty. But when it comes to the television of excess, it’s often best not to water or feed it at all.
Miguel and Pete, owner of a Purge safe house, search for Miguel’s abducted sister, Penelope. Joe, a troubled old man, gathers a handful of people to host a night of confession and purges, hoping the events of the night will foster justice and cleanse his own soul.
A man listens to a recording about unleashing your inner horrors and is subsequently violent. People are shot, stabbed, electrocuted and choked to death (and we hear multiple conversations about murder, too). Blood oozes from bodies. Cars explode and homes are rigged to do the same. A man makes racist remarks. Citizens fear for their lives and run to safety. A young boy is bullied in high school and soils himself in fear.
Multiple bottles of prescription medication lie on a nightstand. A woman drinks a glass of wine. Women wear revealing outfits. The f-word is heard three times and the s-word eight times. God’s name is misused six times, often paired with “d–n,” and Jesus’ name is misused twice. Other profanity includes multiple uses of “h—,” “a–hole,” “a–,” “b–tard” and “b–ch.” Someone refers to a man’s genitals and another man is referred to as a “repugnant pig” and sexual predator.
The latest Purge is about to begin. Jane’s locked in her well-guarded place of employment—but she dashes downstairs to pay a Purge participant an obscene amount of money to do Jane’s bloody work for her. Miquel, newly back from a stint in the Marines, is on a quest to find his sister, Penelope, who’s joined a cult predicated on sating the Purgers’ bloodlust. Meanwhile, Rick and Jenna head off to a posh Purge party in search of a generous donation for their nonprofit foundation, but they find an unexpected person there.
Both Rick and Jenna have history with the woman, the potential donor’s daughter. In flashback, we see all three of them engaged in sexual acts, often at the same time. The scenes include embraces between the two women, sexual movements and lots of bare skin (though critical anatomy is obscured through various means). The camera also takes us into a communal shower for both men and women, where cultists wash themselves in preparation for their final sacrifice. (We see some exposed shoulders, legs and stomachs.)
Penelope and others ride a bus into the heart of the Purge, windows painted opaque so as (presumably) not to alarm the faithful too soon. “Purify my flesh, prepare my soul, the giving is near, the Invisible awaits,” they chant, with the “Invisible” being akin to the cultists’ heaven. They imagine the afterlife will include a reunion with formerly purged family members and eternal love and peace, accessed through a “moment” of suffering (they’re told). When the first cultist gets off the bus, he’s faced by several masked Purgers with axes, who run at him and hack him to death. (We see the attack in shadowed silhouette.)
Elsewhere, someone’s tied to the back of a car and dragged through the streets. Another person is shot. A Purger carries a lifeless body, and another would-be Purger sharpens a long, wicked blade. (“Don’t worry, not for you,” he reassures a passerby.) We see people whipped and beaten, and a mob turns over a car. Miguel fights several people, knocking them out via flurries of fists and feet. A woman, half-unconscious and perhaps drugged, is tied in a room and referred to as a “Purge dessert.” (She’s eventually rescued.) Guests at a party wear masks of serial killers—a salute to their courage and foresight, the host says.
People drink whiskey, alcoholic shots and champagne. In searching for his sister, Miguel first stops off at a drug-and-alcohol rehab center, where Penelope once stayed. God’s name is invoked reverently as the Purge commences. We also hear other less pious references to God, including four uses with “d–n.” The s-word is uttered six or seven times, and we also hear “a–,” “b–tard,” “h—,” “d–n” and “p-ss.”
Paul Asay has been part of the Plugged In staff since 2007, watching and reviewing roughly 15 quintillion movies and television shows. He’s written for a number of other publications, too, including Time, The Washington Post and Christianity Today. The author of several books, Paul loves to find spirituality in unexpected places, including popular entertainment, and he loves all things superhero. His vices include James Bond films, Mountain Dew and terrible B-grade movies. He’s married, has two children and a neurotic dog, runs marathons on occasion and hopes to someday own his own tuxedo. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @AsayPaul.
Kristin Smith joined the Plugged In team in 2017. Formerly a Spanish and English teacher, Kristin loves reading literature and eating authentic Mexican tacos. She and her husband, Eddy, love raising their children Judah and Selah. Kristin also has a deep affection for coffee, music, her dog (Cali) and cat (Aslan).
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