There is a serene moment near the end of the first act in Joe Begos’ midnight thriller VFW when the diminutive war vet Doug (played by David Patrick Kelly) steps outside the local veterans watering hole that forms the rundown center of the film’s small, grim universe. He sparks a joint, looks up at the sky and marvels to himself,
“They don’t know what they’re missing. This darkness. It’s perfect. It’s peace.”
This little tidbit of stoned contemplation might just be a throwaway line in a movie with plenty of improvised moments, uttered by one of its least impactful characters. But I found it charming, not just because I am a sucker for even threadbare metaphor and foreshadowing, but because I have experienced many such moments: crossfaded and stumbling outside just to find in the fresh air and clear sky the sense that I have come upon something important but nameless about the world, something that gets drowned out by the suddenly inconsequential din of the bar. It’s an incomplete and chemically enhanced enlightenment to be sure, but I think in those moments we may be onto something. However, this tangent has as little to do with this review as that scene does to the overall plot.
VFW imagines a pulpy, dystopian America ravaged by a worsening drug epidemic and the effects of a new drug called Hylophedrine, or Hype. When a vengeful robbery of a fortune’s worth of Hype spills over into the adjacent veterans bar, a group of over-the-hill Vietnam vets are besieged by a small army of zombie-like “Hypers” commanded by the crust punk kingpin Boz (Travis Hammer) and his deadly partner Gutter (Dora Madison).
The ensemble of unsuspecting vets orbits around the bartender Fred, played by consummate tough guy and theater actor Stephen Lang. He takes generous slugs out of a flask in his beat-up pickup truck on his way to work, where the hard drinking continues. Abe (Fred Williamson) describes both the truck and the salty GIs it transports: “Old but still working.” The group has an easy and mischievous chemistry strengthened by shared experience in the mud and trauma of war, and the bar they inhabit matches the scenery. It’s a shithole, but it’s their shithole. On this particular Friday they are joined by a newcomer: Shawn (Tom Williamson) who just got back from a deployment in Afghanistan.
That’s about when the shit hits the fan.
This is Joe Begos’ fourth feature film and he is starting to solidify some calling cards. The violence is sensational, and it is clear that practical special effects and ultraviolence take precedence over its politically regressive subtext. In terms of cinematography, the film is so dark that it is hard at times to even discern the action, with the embattled characters outlined by the grainy splash of neon blues and reds. Begos has stated that he is no fan of glossy, digital, high production horror, and there is an intentional grime and darkness here that reflects those lo-fi values.
All of it is set to the undulating synths of Steve Moore’s moody soundtrack, which further contributes to VFW’s aesthetic as a throwback grindhouse feature that recalls films like Assault on Precinct 13, Escape From New York, and the more recent Green Room. Both the writing and the production values reach for a sort of nostalgia for gritty, independent-minded horror and an imagined cultural moment when the beer was colder, the TVs were analog, the trucks weren’t luxury vehicles, and your body still did what you expected it to. Even the past referenced is far from perfect—the Vietnam conflict marks a breaking point in American ideals and a humanitarian catastrophe for the peoples of Southeast Asia—but the somewhat fantastical suggestion is that it felt somehow more tangible and real than the world we face today. And if such a notion is just an illusion repeated endlessly in the minds of every generation, it doesn’t much matter here.
VFW is not here to convert casual viewers or break the mold formed by its inspirations. Its bare-bones plot, murky atmosphere and eager bloodletting will not find receptive audiences everywhere. There are those (even among fans of the genre) who will find the scope too small, the plot too reductive, the execution too rough. If there is a purposeful ideological statement being made it is neither deep nor progressive. But for those fans of hyperviolent, uncomplicated midnight movies, those unlovely traits are just part of the appeal. Throw on a poncho and fire up the circular saw—things are about to get messy.