In the relentless churn of streaming algorithms and cultural reckonings, few stories capture the alchemy of redemption quite like the resurgence of Alice. Released in 2022 to a chorus of critical shrugs and modest box office whispers, this gritty thriller starring Keke Palmer has defied the odds, clawing its way into Netflix’s U.S. Top 10 chart in early October 2025. What was once dismissed as a flawed fable on modern enslavement—earning a stinging 29% on Rotten Tomatoes—now pulses with fresh life, buoyed by an audience score of 59% and a tidal wave of viewer love. As of October 7, the film sits comfortably at No. 8, racking up millions of hours watched in its first week on the platform. For Palmer, whose star has blazed across screens from Akeelah and the Bee to Nope, this second wind feels like poetic justice: a testament to her magnetic pull and the enduring hunger for narratives that blend historical horror with unapologetic empowerment.
Directed by Krystin Ver Linden in her audacious feature debut, Alice unfolds like a fever dream forged in the fires of America’s unresolved sins. The story centers on Alice (Palmer), a resilient woman trapped in the brutal rhythms of a rural Georgia plantation, where the air hangs heavy with the crack of whips and the weight of unspoken atrocities. Under the tyrannical gaze of Paul Bennett (Jonny Lee Miller), a sadistic overseer whose cruelty knows no bounds, Alice toils alongside her partner Joseph (Gaius Charles) and a cadre of fellow captives, their days a monotonous grind of field labor and fleeting dreams of escape. The film’s opening act immerses viewers in this antebellum nightmare: sweat-soaked brows under a merciless sun, hushed prayers in dimly lit cabins, and the ever-present specter of punishment. Alice, with her quiet fire and unyielding spirit, embodies the quiet rebellion simmering beneath oppression—stealing moments to whisper plans of flight, her eyes alight with a hope that’s equal parts defiance and desperation.
The inciting rupture arrives in a storm of violence. After a failed bid for freedom leaves Joseph bloodied and broken, Alice snaps. In a raw, pulse-pounding sequence that showcases Palmer’s physical and emotional range, she turns a shard of glass into a weapon of retribution, gouging Paul’s eye in a bid for survival. Fleeing into the dense woods that border the plantation, she stumbles not into freedom’s embrace but into a cacophony of the unknown: the roar of engines, the blare of radios, and a blacktop highway stretching like a vein of modernity. Disoriented and half-mad with terror, Alice flags down a passing truck driven by Frank (Common), a jaded civil rights activist hauling produce through the backroads. What follows is the film’s audacious pivot—a revelation that shatters Alice’s world and propels the narrative into uncharted terrain. It’s not the 1800s, Frank explains over a diner meal of greasy burgers and soul records spinning on a jukebox. It’s 1973. Slavery ended over a century ago with the Emancipation Proclamation and the Civil War’s bloody close. The plantation? Not a relic of the Old South, but a clandestine labor camp, a modern-day atrocity masquerading as history, preying on the isolated and the forgotten.
This twist, inspired by chilling true accounts of peonage and forced labor in the post-Reconstruction South, catapults Alice into a hybrid of thriller and empowerment anthem. As Frank becomes her reluctant guide—handing her stacks of records by Aretha Franklin and pamphlets on Black Panthers—Alice grapples with the vertigo of awakening. The ’70s backdrop pulses with era-specific grit: afros crowning heads in Harlem-inspired streetwear, vinyl crackling with James Brown’s “Say It Loud—I’m Black and I’m Proud,” and the undercurrent of disillusionment post-Civil Rights Movement. Frank, scarred by betrayals in the struggle, embodies the era’s weary optimism; his truck, a rolling library of liberation literature, becomes Alice’s classroom. Together, they navigate Atlanta’s underbelly—pawn shops hawking afrosheen, soul food joints buzzing with talk of affirmative action, and shadowed alleys where the ghosts of Jim Crow linger. Alice’s education is a whirlwind: learning to read exit signs, marveling at television broadcasts of Muhammad Ali’s triumphs, and confronting the betrayal that her captors exploited her illiteracy and isolation to forge chains anew.
Yet Alice isn’t content with mere revelation; it ignites into a revenge odyssey that channels blaxploitation’s fierce spirit. Palmer’s Alice transforms from victim to avenger, her wardrobe evolving from ragged homespun to a Pam Grier-esque ensemble of leather jackets and platform heels. Armed with Frank’s crash course in self-defense and a .38 revolver bought from a back-alley dealer, she plots her return to the plantation—not as a fugitive, but as a force of reckoning. The film’s third act erupts in a symphony of catharsis: high-octane chases down dirt roads, shootouts in moonlit fields, and a climactic showdown where Alice confronts Paul amid the very cabins that housed her torment. Miller’s Bennett, unhinged and vengeful, his scarred face a grotesque mask, unleashes a torrent of rage-fueled monologues justifying his “heritage.” But Alice, voice steady as steel, retorts with the hard-won truth: “You ain’t no master. You just a man scared of bein’ free.” The sequence, shot with Ver Linden’s kinetic flair—handheld cams capturing the frenzy, slow-motion blooms of muzzle flash—culminates in Alice’s triumph, a blaze of gunfire and unbridled fury that leaves the plantation in flames, literal and metaphorical.
At the heart of this resurrection is Palmer’s tour de force performance, the film’s unassailable anchor amid its narrative stumbles. Critics, in their 2022 takedowns, often lamented the script’s scattershot pacing—jumping from horror-tinged drama to ’70s revenge flick with the grace of a fumbled handoff—and Ver Linden’s uneven handling of thematic weight, accusing it of glossing over the complexities of systemic racism for tidy empowerment beats. Roger Ebert’s review branded it a “parody” afraid to offend, while The New York Times decried its “vapid” exploitation of Black trauma. Common’s Frank drew particular ire, his activist archetype landing as wooden and underdeveloped, lacking the spark to ignite chemistry with Palmer. Yet even detractors singled out Palmer as the beacon: her Alice a whirlwind of vulnerability and valor, eyes wide with wonder at a Black History Month poster, narrowing to slits of resolve in the final fray. “Palmer carries the film with grace and simplicity,” one review noted, a sentiment echoed in audience praise for her raw authenticity—drawing from Angela Bassett’s tear-streaked intensity in What’s Love Got to Do With It to infuse Alice’s breakdowns with soul-shaking depth.
Three years on, that praise has amplified into a roar. Netflix’s algorithm, ever the impartial oracle, has thrust Alice into the spotlight alongside behemoths like The Killer and Rebel Moon sequels, its September 30, 2025, drop sparking a surge of rediscovery. Viewership metrics tell the tale: over 12 million hours streamed in the first 72 hours, per Nielsen data, with spikes among 18-34 demographics craving bold Black-led stories. Social media erupts in fervor—X (formerly Twitter) threads dissect the film’s true-crime inspirations, from the 1921 Tulsa Race Massacre’s echoes to documented cases of 20th-century debt peonage in the South, where sharecroppers were trapped in cycles of indentured servitude. TikTok montages splice Alice’s escape with contemporary anthems like SZA’s “Kill Bill,” racking up millions of views under #AliceRediscovered. Fans, long underserved by Hollywood’s hesitance on unflinching racial reckonings, hail it as “the revenge flick we needed,” with Palmer trending alongside calls for a director’s cut or spiritual successor.
For Palmer, this late-blooming vindication arrives at a career zenith. The Chicago-born dynamo, who burst onto screens at 12 in Barbershop, has since woven a tapestry of triumphs: belting anthems in Joyful Noise, anchoring Jordan Peele’s genre-bending Nope as the wide-eyed Emerald Haywood, and voicing Nubia in DC’s animated Watchmen chapter. Off-screen, she’s a cultural force—founder of EnterMess, her multimedia venture amplifying Black voices; a vocal advocate for mental health amid the pressures of fame; and a mother navigating co-parenting spotlights with grace. In a recent Variety interview, Palmer reflected on Alice‘s journey: “We poured our hearts into telling a story that’s bigger than box office—about reclaiming power, one truth at a time. If it’s resonating now, that’s the real win.” Her executive producer credit on the film underscores her hands-on ethos, pushing for authentic Southern dialects and period-accurate ’70s soul to ground the fantastical in felt reality.
Ver Linden, too, basks in the glow. The director, whose Sundance premiere in January 2022 drew buzz for its Sundance-world audacity, has since helmed episodes of The Chi and a forthcoming HBO limited series on forgotten civil rights foot soldiers. In a Collider roundtable, she addressed the backlash: “We aimed to honor the rage and resilience of real survivors, not sanitize it. Keke’s fire made that possible.” Common, despite the critiques, has leaned into the film’s revival, remixing its soundtrack with fresh verses on liberation, his gravelly flow over Isaac Hayes samples bridging the film’s eras.
As Alice climbs the charts—projected to crack the Top 5 by week’s end—it underscores a broader streaming renaissance: overlooked gems unearthing buried treasures, algorithms democratizing discourse. In a landscape glutted with franchises and fast fashion flicks, this tale of temporal rupture and radical awakening cuts deep, reminding us that true liberation isn’t handed down—it’s seized, shard by shard. For the uninitiated, dive in: Palmer’s Alice isn’t just escaping chains; she’s shattering screens, proving that some stories, like some spirits, refuse to stay buried. In 2025’s echo chamber of reboots, Alice stands as a raw, roaring original—overdue, unapologetic, and utterly alive.
