On September 22, 1975, a startling event unfolded in San Francisco that would forever etch Sara Jane Moore’s name into the annals of history—though not in the way she might have hoped. A 45-year-old woman fired two shots at President Gerald Ford, missing both times, before being subdued by a bystander. But here’s where it gets controversial: Moore’s story isn’t just about an assassination attempt; it’s a labyrinthine tale of paranoia, political fervor, and a mind at odds with reality. Forty years later, after serving 32 years of a life sentence, Moore was asked by a CNN journalist, ‘What drove you to try to assassinate President Ford?’ That very question lies at the heart of Robinson Devor’s documentary Suburban Fury, which premiered at the New York Film Festival in 2024. Through a series of interviews with Moore—who passed away at 95—the film attempts to unravel the tangled web of her motivations: her state of mind, her political beliefs, her personal history, and her sense of purpose. But can we ever truly understand someone whose logic seems to defy comprehension?
Suburban Fury begins with a striking condition: Moore agreed to participate only if no other interviews were conducted. This sets the stage for a claustrophobic journey into her perspective, a perspective Devor captures with eerie precision. Shot through panes of glass, in the backseat of a car, or in an empty living room, Moore’s isolation is palpable. Devor’s framing—inspired by the paranoid political thrillers of Alan J. Pakula—positions Moore as a tiny figure against stark, austere backdrops, reminiscent of All the President’s Men. Yet, her narrative is anything but orderly. Her story is a maze of contradictions, a journey from ‘every-woman’ to would-be assassin that defies linear explanation. And this is the part most people miss: the film doesn’t just tell her story; it immerses us in her fragmented reality.
Devor’s role as interviewer and director is uniquely frustrating. He’s at the mercy of Moore’s circular thinking, forced to structure her story in brief chapters that count up to 10, then back down to one. We learn that Moore—allegedly from an affluent family in Charleston, W.V., though her claims of wealth were disputed—became entangled in the Bay Area’s political scene after Patty Hearst’s kidnapping in 1974. She volunteered at the Hearst Food Program, supposedly due to her connection with the Hearst family, and claims she was later recruited by the FBI to infiltrate the Symbionese Liberation Army. Her relationship with her handler, Bertram Worthington, is abstract, almost like a distant pen pal. Yet, it’s through his imagined report-writing that Devor introduces a perspective outside Moore’s own.
But here’s the kicker: Moore’s biography remains shrouded in mystery. How many children did she have? When and where? Details about her military service or time at the Actor’s Studio are equally obscure. Devor relies heavily on archival footage—riots, protests, news clips—to fill in the gaps. The brief appearance of the neighbor who sold her the gun is jarring, a reminder of the ‘real world’ outside her paranoia. ‘There was nothing about her demeanor that would’ve indicated she had such a terrible thing on her mind,’ he recalls. And that’s the crux of it: Moore’s ordinariness was her weapon. As a ‘white, middle-aged lady with curly hair,’ she believed she could evade suspicion. Yet, even the Secret Service, who briefly detained her the day before the attempt, failed to see her as a threat.
What sets Moore apart from other presidential assassins? For one, she’s a woman—one of only two in American history to attempt such an act. But more strikingly, she had a political agenda, however convoluted. Unlike John Hinckley Jr., who shot Ronald Reagan in 1981 and was deemed insane, Moore pleaded guilty and resolutely sane. She saw her act as a way to turn the state’s violence against itself, either sparking a revolution or proving that one was already underway. Her logic, at times startlingly lucid, is ultimately undermined by the absurdity of her actions. No one in their right mind tries to assassinate a president in broad daylight—or do they?
The insistence that her perspective is the only correct one is a hallmark of conspiracy-addled thinking. In Suburban Fury, Devor’s most revealing moment comes when he tries to clarify details with Moore. She becomes frustrated, raises her voice, and demands to tell her story her way. ‘Shut up,’ she cries at one point. This inability to engage with differing viewpoints is telling. Moore fought for the supremacy of her interpretations, even when they made her harder to understand. In her CNN interview, she bristles at the suggestion that she’d ‘turned a new leaf’ after prison. ‘I was always a citizen in good standing,’ she snaps. But who was she, really? Her refusal to discuss her biography—even her name was an alias—leaves her identity obscured, like a figure behind frosted glass.
And this is where the film leaves us: with more questions than answers. Was Moore a revolutionary, a conspiracist, or simply a troubled soul? Does her story challenge our understanding of political violence, or does it reinforce the archetype of the ‘lonely oddball’ with a firearm fixation? Devor doesn’t provide easy answers, and perhaps that’s the point. Suburban Fury is a strange, blinkered, and utterly compelling exploration of a mind that defies comprehension. But it also invites us to consider: What drives someone to such extremes? And could it ever happen again? What do you think? Is Moore’s story a cautionary tale, a tragic mystery, or something else entirely? Let’s discuss in the comments.
