J.J. Abrams’ name has been the subject of praise and ire, but for the first time, he’s become an artist out-of-touch with his audience. Although he penned such 1990s hits as Regarding Henry and Armageddon, Abrams attained recognition from the entertainment community from his work on “water-cooler shows,” such as Felicity, Alias, and most notably, Lost. The filmmaking and writing on these programs were a cut above the majority of what was on broadcast television at the time, but what made them notable was their serialization. Abrams mastered the gradual reveal of information, which seduced viewers into the belief that they needed to complete the series in order to receive answers.
There have been few American filmmakers since Steven Spielberg who’ve been able to incorporate provocative ideas within mass-market entertainment, but Abrams is regarded as having “saved” several franchises on the verge of irrelevancy. After years dedicated to the appeasement of long-term fans, Abrams made Star Trek “cool” again with his 2009 prequel film, which introduced Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto as the younger versions of Captain Kirk and Commander Spock. Abrams was later given the keys to the Star Wars franchise, and directed Disney’s The Force Awakens. Although the Star Wars fandom has grown uglier within the past decade, The Force Awakens was a critically acclaimed cultural sensation that spawned a new generation of fans, and also earned over $2 billion at the global box office.
Abrams has been less successful when asked to provide conclusions. Fans of Lost spent years dedicated to the analysis of the show’s latent details, up until the series finale, “The End,” which provided a frustrating “afterlife” conclusion that many heckled as a “cop out.” Director Rian Johnson crafted a beautiful, challenging sequel to The Force Awakens with The Last Jedi, but Abrams retconned the majority of his innovations when he directed the third entry in the Star Wars sequel trilogy. The Rise of Skywalker received pans from both defenders of the Disney era and its most vehement critics; the film was so thoroughly rejected that George Lucas’ prequel films earned positive comparisons.
The Rise of Skywalker also halted the good will Abrams had earned from his decades of success. Abrams had signed a $250 million contract for his company Bad Robot to develop projects exclusively for HBO Max, but the record-breaking “first look” deal only led to an extended period of development. Although HBO Max was later renamed Max (before the recent announcement that the original name has been reinstated), Abrams has just now produced his first project in six years with the crime series Duster.
Set in the American southwest in 1972, Duster is the story of the rough-and-rowdy getaway driver Jim Ellis, played by former Lost star Josh Holloway in a comeback role. After his brother’s killed by a crime syndicate, Jim’s lured into a hasty alliance with the FBI agent Nina Hayes (Rachel Hilson), who’s worked to dismantle a criminal empire led by the mob boss Ezra Saxton (Keith David). As with most Abrams projects, the narrative complexities are merely set dressing; the thesis of the show is best exemplified by its opening title scene, which incorporated various car chases and vehicular stunts.
The brief period in which HBO Max aimed to develop projects independent of the HBO linear network resulted in an interesting nuance within the “prestige television” narrative. While they received the same extravagant budgets as any of the network’s buzzier titles, the “HBO Max originals” employed an old-fashioned, “case-of-the-week” style approach reminiscent of traditional broadcast shows. Its results were mixed; for every breakthrough success like Hacks or The Pitt, there was a creative misfire like Raised With Wolves or Made for Love.
Duster’s future is uncertain, but the series is both elevated and constrained by this niche approach. The production quality is enhanced, as it's far easier to be immersed within Jim’s heists when the 1970s are so beautifully recaptured; the lack of broadcast standards also means that Duster has included the sex, violence, and drugs that couldn’t appear on an ABC show. Nonetheless, Duster is confused on whether it's a serial or a procedural; while each episode has provided critical pieces of backstory, episodes are largely centered on individual escapades, which are loosely tied to the overall narrative.
The haphazard plotting of Abrams’ early work was part of its charm; the rampant rewrites within Lost allowed the series to take advantage of new developments before being locked into a potentially underwhelming reveal. However, Duster is largely non-committal. While Ellis’ tragic backstory has been alluded to, it's never brought up in a way that would dampen Holloway’s charisma. Similarly, the prejudices that Nina, a black female FBI agent, would realistically face in 1972 are scaled back to the point that the series has felt aspirational.
Although it’s suggested Duster is doomed to a sharp decline in quality, Abrams has shown again why he’s a cinematic magician. Duster isn’t high art, but it's compulsively watchable, as there’s just enough specificity within the individual set pieces to elevate the show above mindless shlock. Unlike Lost, which was burdened by a misguided sense of purpose, Duster doesn’t have any intentions beyond being as entertaining as possible.
While Abrams is arguably too much of an individualist to become a “for-hire” studio player, it's hard to imagine an original Abrams project would incite the anticipation that contemporaries like Christopher Nolan or Jordan Peele have earned. Nonetheless, Abrams’ interest in Duster might be in its subtle autobiographical elements; like Ellis, Abrams may be at his best when he’s backed up against a wall.