DUSTER (2025)– A 70s Crime Ride With Muscle Cars, Mullets, and a Molotov Cocktail of Messaging

Set in the 1970's Southwest, the life of a gutsy getaway driver for a growing crime syndicate goes from awful to wildly, stupidly, dangerously awful.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJrSg1i9V5M

Let’s take a trip, kids. Back to a time when polyester was breathable, gas was cheap, and every third guy in America looked like Burt Reynolds’ mustache had joined the Witness Protection Program. Welcome to Duster, HBO’s newest addition to the retro crime caper genre - and lemme tell ya, it’s a helluva dusty ride through the sunburned underbelly of 1970s Southwest Americana, where the cars are fast, the characters are flawed, and the plot twists are easier to spot than a tie-dyed Volkswagen in a GOP parking lot.

We follow Josh Holloway - yeah, that Josh Holloway, the guy who looks like he was genetically engineered in a Marlboro Man lab accident - playing Jim, a getaway driver whose life goes from “awful” to “somebody-call-my-mama” levels of catastrophic. It’s a little Smokey and the Bandit meets Breaking Bad, with a dash of Starsky & Hutch, and just a whisper of The Dukes of Hazzard if Daisy got a badge and Bo started reading Tolstoy.

Holloway nails the role with that same gruff, Southern charm that made Lost fans swoon, but now with added wear-and-tear - like your favorite leather jacket after a bar fight. He’s joined by Rachel Hilson as Nina, an idealistic, driven FBI agent who feels like Angela Davis with a government pension. And let’s not forget Asivak Koostachin, who adds real depth as a local character caught between his roots and the chaos erupting around him.

The premise? Jim’s the wheelman for a rising crime syndicate and, as luck would have it, things go south faster than a preacher at a Vegas bachelor party. He’s roped into a growing vortex of violence, betrayal, and “oh hell no” decisions that make your average HR department look like a support group for saints.

Now here’s where the series revs up its engine. First off, Duster looks gorgeous. Shot in Tucson and New Mexico, the desert isn’t just a backdrop - it’s a supporting character. I half expected Clint Eastwood to stroll out of a saloon and demand the show share screen time. The blazing heat, the wide-open roads, the grime - it all just feels like 1972, in that “I need a tetanus shot and an alibi” kind of way.

And those cars? Holy Hemis. Over 250 vintage vehicles were procured for this show, including multiple Plymouth Dusters - one for glamour shots, others for stunts, and one poor soul that was probably sacrificed to the God of Burnout Smoke. Holloway even did his own driving for a lot of it. The man is a walking Marlboro ad, and now he’s pulling e-brakes like he’s auditioning for The Fast and the Furiously Nostalgic.

Let’s talk intros. Each episode opens with what looks like the love child of Hot Wheels and Tarantino’s dream journal - a meticulously crafted toy car sequence by French animators Meat Dept. using Blender. It’s playful, stylish, and surprisingly layered. Easter eggs abound. It’s like Pee-Wee’s Playhouse for gearheads and conspiracy theorists. A Rolodex here, a nod to Howard Hughes there - if you blink, you’ll miss a dozen clues.

Musically, the show slaps. The soundtrack is straight outta the 8-track era, with just enough soul, funk, and fuzzed-out guitars to make you want to throw on a fringed vest and punch someone through a beaded curtain. It feels like you’re in 1972. Or at least at a really good Halloween party pretending it’s 1972.

The writing, courtesy of J.J. Abrams and LaToya Morgan, crackles with character-driven depth. These aren’t one-note stereotypes driving around in cool cars. They’re layered, messy, and - brace yourself - human. Jim’s a loser with charm, Nina’s a badass with principles, and the supporting cast is full of gray-area types that make you question whether good guys exist or if everyone just looks a little less bad in aviators.

Now, cue the record scratch because here come the disclaimers.

Let’s address the elephant in the back seat. Every single throwback show these days seems contractually obligated to take a historically gritty setting and inject it with enough diversity milestones to make a UN brochure blush. Look, I’m all for inclusion, but when you’re rewriting history like it was an iTunes playlist, it starts to feel less like progress and more like a performative TED Talk sponsored by Wikipedia. Nina, played brilliantly by Hilson, is the first Black female FBI agent. Trailblazing? Sure. Historically plausible? Eh... probably not without a few more “No’s” and civil lawsuits along the way. But hey, it’s prestige TV - not a Ken Burns documentary.

There’s also a tendency to check every box on the casting bingo card. And that’s fine… if it feels organic. Sometimes here, it doesn’t. It’s like they’re handing out plotlines based on LinkedIn quotas.

And those plot twists? Let’s just say Duster sometimes signals its punches harder than a drunk uncle at a wedding dance. You’ll see where it’s going, but you won’t mind because the ride’s too fun to jump out of the car. And that cliffhanger in the finale? Chef’s kiss. It’s the TV equivalent of slamming a shot of Wild Turkey and then realizing you’re out of gas two towns from home.

So what’s the verdict?

Duster isn’t perfect, but neither was the 70s. And maybe that’s the point. It's got grit, style, attitude, and just enough substance to make it more than a retro costume party. If you're in the mood for a fast-paced, flawed, yet entertaining desert crime ride that doesn’t take itself too seriously - but takes its cars very seriously - this one's worth the binge.

Final Score: 7.0/10

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