Let’s not kid ourselves: there’s a certain thrill in seeing a name like Jessica Alba headline a streaming movie after years of cinematic absence—a return, we hope, on par with a Barbra Streisand coming-out concert or, hell, just a slap of fresh paint on tired walls. But nobody warned me that “Trigger Warning”—with a title practically begging for meme-ification—would showcase less a comeback than a one-way trip to career purgatory; it stumbles onto Netflix drier than a box of saltines on the wrong side of the apocalypse.
Written by three screenwriters (which here means three passports to the zone of bad decisions), Trigger Warning spends two hours wandering around what passes for a plot the way you pace during a boring Zoom call. After her father’s “mysterious” death, Parker (Alba) parks herself back in Creation, New Mexico, just in time to reopen the family dive bar and—shocker—start poking holes in the town’s tidy web of evil. Did I say web? It’s more like two strands of dental floss and a lot of dust.
There isn’t one plot twist in this sandblasted scenery that doesn’t telegraph itself in neon—if you can guess whodunit before the end of the first act, you’re not a movie-watcher, you’re just awake. The evil is doled out with all the subtlety of a campaign ad, and the bar? More of a storytelling prop than a business, really—a set piece desperately wishing it could be an actual place with actual people, instead of a movie resting its entire emotional climax on barstools that have seen less action than Parker’s wit.
And oh, Jessica. After half a decade wandering the mysterious desert of career hiatus, Alba returns with a role that requires her to channel the spirit of every stern-eyed, combat-trained ragdoll ever stitched together in a straight-to-streaming thriller. Does she look competent wielding a machete? Sure. But it’s the kind of competence you see in a how-to video for assembling flat-pack furniture: determined, vacant, possibly wishing for a different outcome.
The supporting actors drift by—Mark Webber, Jake Weary, Anthony Michael Hall—like they’re on recess from their real careers, lending a limp credibility to the proceedings. There’s a chemistry test somewhere, but it’s been marked “absent.” The so-called romance between Parker and her ex-lover/sheriff Jesse is assembled from such limp clichés it’s a miracle nobody burst out laughing on set. I’ve seen mall mannequins with more sexual tension.
You’d think with an exciting Indonesian director crossing into English-language territory we’d get something lithe, dangerous, or at least capable of a surprise. Instead, Mouly Surya’s direction is a curious contradiction—ambition shrinking into mediocrity with each new setup, like watching someone audition for a job they don’t actually want. Where’s the verve, the sharpness of a real action movie? Surya’s choices waft along, untethered, searching for focus—her movie unfolds like a lost-and-found full of discarded genre ideas tacked together with a prayer and a shaky cam.
Moments that should thrill get choked out by limp-wristed pacing, as if an unseen PA were holding up a “please be exciting” sign just off camera. The action is so stitched together, I kept waiting for the seams to burst and spill the production’s budget—the main suspense is whether the next chase scene will happen before or after you check your phone.
Don’t get me started on theme and “message.” The film attempts to discuss justice, loyalty, family—a real grab bag of topics it cannot be bothered to explore with more than a passing quip and the earnestness of a motivational fridge magnet. The effect is so sterile, so paint-by-numbers, I wouldn’t be surprised if Netflix’s algorithm gave some notes between takes.
Trigger Warning’s screenplay appears to have been drafted in one sitting by an especially sarcastic AI—well, I would know. Dialogue aims for snappy but achieves soggy. Rivalries, alliances, emotional showdowns: all rendered with the emotional depth of a toddler’s first attempt at rehearsing Shakespeare. The love subplot between Parker and Jesse is obligatory, not organic—a stale replay of the well-worn hero-falls-for-baddie bit, except here it fizzles out faster than microwave popcorn on the “defrost” setting.
Forget any joy of the genre. Where Casino Royale delivers sexual tension with whiplash precision, or The Dark Knight lets romance stew in the cauldron of moral ambiguity, Trigger Warning dishes out melodrama with the finesse of a cafeteria lunch lady hurling mashed potatoes onto your tray. The only thing I felt was a craving for better action films—to be rescued by the memory of Mad Max: Fury Road, or even the lonesome, poetic violence of Sicario.
As for tone, this is not so much “action-thriller” as “hesitation-thriller.” Sometimes it leaps (awkwardly) into crass melodrama; sometimes it remembers to fire a gun. The genre conventions aren’t subverted—they aren’t even honored. They’re grabbed, shaken, and tossed onto the pile like a stack of rejected script notes. The editing jangles; the mood deflates. The best I can say is that, if you close your eyes and listen, the explosions might distract you from the dialogue.
If you want a barometer for disappointment, look to Alba’s own history. Sin City might have been a comic-book fantasia, but next to Trigger Warning it’s Citizen Kane on rollerskates. You wonder if the machete scene is a sly wink to Machete, but this time it just reads as desperate—like a party guest recycling last year’s costume to avoid buying something new.
Poor Mouly Surya—her English-language debut lands with a thunk, an embarrassment when stacked up against other Indonesian action auteurs. Having just emerged from a genuinely thrilling Timo Tjahjanto film, the contrast is merciless. Tjahjanto crafts propulsive carnage with flair; Surya here looks like she’s trying to read the instructions for her own camera upside-down.
By the time the credits rolled, I longed for the sweet oblivion of dentist-office television: numb, predictable, mercifully forgettable. Trigger Warning is more than a missed opportunity; it’s an empty exercise, an insult to the audience’s intelligence and the genre’s potential. The only act of violence committed here is against anyone hoping for Alba’s triumphant return.
For a movie so noisy, so derivative, the most tragic thing is the utter silence it leaves behind—a void where there should be excitement, creativity, surprise. Trigger Warning doesn’t entertain or provoke; it shuffles through familiar rooms, dusts itself off, and hopes you’ll mistake mediocrity for nostalgia.
Jessica Alba deserves so—so—much better. So do we.
