Trap House

**The Tradecraft of Suburbia: A Review of *Trap House***

In the canon of modern action cinema, the "hero" is often a solitary figure—a man whose violence is a burden he carries alone, shielding his family from the bloodshed. But Michael Dowse’s *Trap House* dares to ask a more uncomfortable question: What happens when the violence isn't shielded, but inherited? While the film markets itself as a high-octane thriller about DEA agents and cartel heists, its pulse beats loudest when it examines the unintended legacy of a life lived in the shadows. It is a film about tradecraft seeping into the groundwater of suburbia.

Dowse, a director who has previously navigated the intersection of brutality and heart (most notably in *Goon* and his previous collaboration with Bautista, *Stuber*), attempts a difficult tonal tightrope walk here. Visually, the film operates in two distinct registers that occasionally crash into one another with jarring force. We have the gritty, sun-scorched texture of the El Paso borderlands—where Dave Bautista’s Agent Ray Seale operates—contrasted against the slick, almost glossy digital urgency of his teenage son Cody’s (Jack Champion) world. Dowse uses this visual dissonance to underscore the narrative divide: the parents are fighting a dirty, analog war, while their children are playing a high-stakes, digital game.

The film’s central conceit—that a group of teenagers would use their parents' DEA intel and non-lethal weaponry to rob a cartel—risks collapsing under the weight of its own absurdity. Yet, the narrative finds its footing in the economic anxiety that drives it. The inciting incident isn't a kidnapping or a terrorist threat, but a funeral: a fellow agent dies, leaving his family destitute due to bureaucratic loopholes in death benefits. This dash of socio-economic realism grounds the spectacle. When Cody and his crew raid their first "trap house," it isn't framed merely as an adrenaline rush, but as a desperate act of redistribution—a Robin Hood narrative for the fentanyl age.

However, the film’s emotional anchor is undeniably Dave Bautista. Continuing his evolution from physical performer to soulful character actor, Bautista imbues Ray Seale with a weary, tactile gravity. He is not the invincible superhero; he is a father terrified that his work has poisoned his home. There is a pivotal scene, quiet amidst the chaos, where Ray begins to piece together the identity of the thieves. The realization plays out not in a scream, but in a sinking silence across his face—the devastating understanding that his son hasn't just learned to ride a bike or throw a ball, but has learned *how to hunt*. It is a performance of surprising tenderness that elevates the material above its B-movie trappings.

Where *Trap House* stumbles is in its resolution. The script, penned by Gary Scott Thompson and Tom O'Connor, struggles to reconcile the lethal consequences of the cartel world with the "adventure" vibe of the teen plot. The third act descends into a chaotic collision of these two worlds that feels less like a thematic crescendo and more like a concession to genre expectations. The stakes, previously rooted in character, evaporate into a haze of gunfire and vehicular mayhem.

Ultimately, *Trap House* is a fascinating, if imperfect, artifact of 2025 cinema. It attempts to bridge the gap between the gritty crime dramas of the 2000s and the YA-adventure sensibilities of the streaming era. While it doesn't always stick the landing, it succeeds in transforming a standard action premise into a surprisingly poignant meditation on what we pass down to our children. We leave them our debts, our fears, and, in Ray Seale’s case, the dangerous knowledge of how to break a lock.