The Rip movie review – Netflix reunites Damon & Affleck for a sweaty, bullet-riddled January blast

Early January is where studio slates go to hibernate, but Netflix keeps treating the month like prime summer real estate. Enter The Rip movie, a 130-minute Miami vice of a thriller that drops Ben Affleck and Matt Damon into a stash-house stand-off over twenty million in cash.

Director Joe Carnahan hasn’t had a budget this beefy since 2011’s The A-Team, and he spends every dime on slick gun-fu, neon-pink sunsets, and the simple joy of watching two forty-something movie stars argue about morality while loading assault rifles.

Story, no spoilers

A murdered detective kicks things off. The ensuing interrogation introduces us to Lieutenant Dane Dumars (Damon), the task-force brain, and his human-battering-ram partner JD Byrne (Affleck). Both are veterans of the department’s “rip” unit—squads that raid drug dens and legally pocket the proceeds.

A tip sends them to a pastel suburban home where the attic hides ten times the money they expected. One bag each? Call it in? Or wait for whoever owns the bricks of hundreds to come knocking? Carnahan’s script keeps resetting the chess board: every new alliance lasts about five minutes, every flashback re-colors who knew what when. By the time the third act arrives, the only certainty is that the dog who sniffed out the cash deserves hazard pay.

Performances

Damon plays exhaustion better than anyone in the business; his Dane looks like he hasn’t slept since the Clinton administration and carries the weight of every bad decision in the creases of his polo shirt. Affleck is the live wire—loud, funny, a little pathetic—essentially recycling the cocky knucklehead charm that made him steal The Town, but it’s still a kick to watch him bounce off Damon in long takes that feel improvised over late-night beers. Around them, Steven Yeun, Teyana Taylor and Catalina Sandino Moreno supply quiet charisma even when the script forgets to give them backstories, while Sasha Calle (the homeowner caught in the crossfire) turns panic into the film’s emotional anchor.

Direction & craft

Carnahan shoots Miami like it’s a character sweating through withdrawal: aerials of lightning over Biscayne Bay, close-ups of rust on squad-car doors, a synth-heavy score that pulses like a migraine. The centerpiece raid is staged in one fluid tracking shot that follows officers from sweltering street to attic inferno, and a mid-film car chase actually obeys geography—low bar, but welcome in the Fast-drone era. Yes, the final fifteen minutes overdose on explanatory flashbacks, but the director lands a closing visual gag so perfect it almost justifies the detour.

Verdict

The Rip movie is derivative in the best way—an unapologetic throwback to the era when Michael Bay posters ruled multiplex walls and every thriller ended with a hero limping toward sunrise. It’s big, dumb, clever, and way more fun than any hundred-million-dollar Netflix action film has the right to be. Stream it on a Friday night, crank the soundbar, and let the smell of cordite and Cuban coffee waft through your living room.