PR in the Philippines

(SeaPRwire) –   The question of whether art is inherently political has persisted for years, across all mediums and through society’s most turbulent times, regardless of the intensity of online debates. In the current climate, this question fuels intense online arguments, as today’s culture war has absorbed every aspect of entertainment, from the first Black lead in Star Wars to discussions about diversity in video games. Every form of media—movies, literature, comic books, video games—has become a perpetual battleground for ideological ownership between the left and right, while some observers maintain that great art should remain free from politics.

For years, artists have grappled with this dilemma, holding strong and varied opinions on both sides. For every creator who feels a need to express their views publicly, there is another who opts for silence, fearing backlash or the loss of audience support. While more visible now, the current culture war echoes a past conflict over the soul of a major musical genre, and the 2015 intense thriller Green Room portrays that struggle with brutal clarity.

While many films claim to be “about” music, few have so authentically captured the essence of a specific genre as Jeremy Saulnier’s third film. This gritty story follows a down-on-their-luck punk band who must fight for survival against Nazi skinheads after accidentally witnessing a murder post-concert. Before the situation turns into a nightmare, the film’s crucial opening act immerses us in the world of the Ain’t Rights, a likable group of struggling artists: we see them siphon gasoline when they can’t afford it, play to an uninterested crowd at a small-town diner for a meager payday, and debate authenticity in an interview with a minuscule audience. These struggles are justified by their electrifying stage performances, as Saulnier masterfully recreates the raw, chaotic energy of a punk show—a highlight being a moment where the music cuts out and the audience moves in unison against a wall of sound.

This extensive setup is essential for what unfolds as one of the most tense films of the 2010s. Jeremy Saulnier is a modern expert at building suspense, and Green Room is brimming with it, thanks to a masterful command of visual storytelling. When the Ain’t Rights are locked backstage, Saulnier doesn’t just show the Nazi gangsters waiting outside; he confines the audience in the room with the band as they frantically strategize, only revealing the imminent threat when a character looks under the door to see a lineup of black boots with red laces.

The violence in Green Room is swift, brutal, and intentionally un-glamorous—there is no slasher-film satisfaction in seeing a machete-hacked arm or a dog attack. It’s a desperate, chaotic fight for survival, reminiscent of a harsh horror game. Though a work of fiction, the movie powerfully evokes the life-and-death conflict between anti-fascist and fascist punk factions from the 1970s and 80s.

During the 1970s, the rise of racist, reactionary views in the U.K.—fueled by figures like Enoch Powell and the National Front party—spawned several neo-Nazi punk bands. This trend spread to the United States in the 1980s, creating a deep rift within the punk scene, with skinhead groups often perpetrating racially motivated violence. An antifascist counter-movement naturally emerged in opposition, with initiatives like London’s Rock Against Racism and the Dead Kennedy’s enduring anthem Nazi Punks F*ck Off making a definitive stand, establishing punk as an inclusive space for all except those who espouse Nazi ideology.

The famous Dead Kennedy’s song is pivotal to the film—it’s the first number the Ain’t Rights perform after realizing they are playing at a skinhead bar, a reckless idea from the band’s shy bassist, Pat (Anton Yelchin). This is one of the late actor’s most memorable roles, portraying a character who is initially hesitant, insecure, and seemingly powerless. Yet, beneath this anxiety lies a core of impulsivity and genuine rebellion, the very qualities that prompt the band to defiantly challenge a Nazi gang on their home ground and which prove essential to their escape.

Saulnier meticulously establishes the highly organized and efficient nature of the skinhead operation early on. In a detailed scene, we witness them executing a cover-up: bribing two followers to take responsibility for a staged, non-fatal stabbing—a trick intended to hide a real murder from police—while simultaneously fabricating a story to frame the band’s planned killings as self-defense. A clear hierarchy is at work, a streamlined fascist system meant to eliminate the protagonists entirely. This is exactly why the band must embrace the anarchic spirit of their music to disrupt their enemies’ carefully laid plans.

Authoritarian systems are orderly, controlled, and meticulously maintained, engineered for oppression and censorship. They prefer art to be uncontroversial, non-confrontational, and silent in the face of injustice; they demand compliance. However, art inherently mirrors the high-stakes political realities that constantly surround us, and the implications of the “culture war” extend far beyond messages in a new Disney film. There are times when one must take a stand, regardless of the risk, even if it means facing a hostile crowd alone—because, as the Dead Kennedy’s declared, “punk is thinking for yourself.”

Green Room is streaming on Netflix.