C+Directed by Edgar Wright Starring Anya Taylor-Joy, and Thomasin McKenzie Review by Jon Kissel |  |
After a career of making genre films about men in various stages of arrested development, Edgar Wright has defined his style and remains in search of substance. Big soundtrack moments, whip-pans, frenetic editing, dense with references to his other movies and the broader culture, all are signifiers for a director whose work has never been as strong as his debut, the zombie comedy Shaun of the Dead. Wright’s latest, Last Night in Soho, continues his resistance to repeating himself, at least as far as genre is concerned, and is also his first attempt at a female-led film. Paying homage to 70’s era psychodramas and Italian horror, Last Night in Soho is more of the same from Wright, a film that achieves moments of transcendence but fails to linger once the thrill of the pop sequences has worn off.
Thomasin McKensie stars as Ellie, an orphaned young woman who’s about to leave her grandma and her small English town for London fashion school. One gets a quick sense that her whole life thus far has been listening to 60’s records and making dresses in her room, leaving her happy and confident in one single piece of her life but clueless in most others. Quickly on the outs with her posh roommate, Ellie moves out of her dorm and into a room let by Ms. Collins (Diana Rigg). The room is spiritually linked to an earlier inhabitant, and in her dreams, Ellie vicariously meets her polar opposite in Sandie (Anya Taylor-Joy), a statuesque beauty who was Ellie’s age in 60’s London. Ellie experiences life in Sandie’s shoes as she goes dancing and looks for gigs as a singer, and she wakes up inspired with ideas for class. As Ellie styles herself more and more like Sandie, her dreams get darker as Sandie’s life takes a nasty turn towards exploitation. The line between wakefulness and sleep starts to blur for Ellie and she sees the sordid evidence of Sandie’s life invading hers.
Wright is at his very best in the 60’s nightclub scenes, where an awestruck Ellie tails Sandie into a club and essentially steps into her body. Using practical effects and detailed choreography, Ellie becomes Sandie becomes Ellie as a suitor played by Matt Smith twirls them both around the dance floor. Whatever Wright decides to do next, chunks of Last Night in Soho suggest a proper musical should rise to the top of the list. McKenzie plays the first act as mousey, and the third as a decompensating mess, but the energy of the second act, where she’s invigorated by briefly getting everything she’s wanted and is translating it into present success, is a delightful new turn from an actor who’s thus far played serious roles without much room for ecstatic joy.
A character, however, can’t reach an emotional peak thirty minutes in without the inevitable comedown. As Ellie learns more about Sandie’s life, the film turns into something like a puritanical horror film, where the lustful and hedonistic are plunged into hell. Sandie’s dreams of performing get downgraded into dancing, and then get downgraded further into prostitution. Ellie’s return trips turn into red-lit scenes of pure degradation, and provide a thin line between burlesque and bordello. Some of that perspective comes from sheltered Ellie, but the film ratifies it with later plot developments. There’s also a thread of the corrupting urban environment against the wholesome countryside, a tiresome theme that Wright has previously skewered in Hot Fuzz. Here, it’s taken as a fact of life.
Sandie’s broken dreams push Ellie towards the aforementioned breakdown, and while McKenzie is great with a crumbling psyche, the film itself pulls its punches. If Wright wants to imitate Italian horror and its tradition of holding nothing back, then certain things need to happen in the imitation. There are repeated scenes of threatened horror instead of actual horror, like the brakes are slammed on right before the moment of impact and everyone giggles at the close call. One particular moment inexcusably doesn’t end with scissors stabbed through a cheek. Horror demands commitment, and Last Night in Soho is left running away from the altar.
Last Night in Soho skates by on the strength of its two lead performances, and when the film is in line with Wright’s bubbly tone, it’s as good as anything he’s done. The tone management is what starts to falter from a director who’s more comfortable with irony than the sincerity that always creeps into his work. Here, that sincerity takes the form of heightened psychological breakdown and trauma, but Wright can’t fully wrap his hands around it any more than he’s been able to handle any of his films’ big emotional moments. Last Night in Soho doesn’t leave me irritated like some of his work has, but it could’ve been his best if the heights were sustained. C+
Wright is at his very best in the 60’s nightclub scenes, where an awestruck Ellie tails Sandie into a club and essentially steps into her body. Using practical effects and detailed choreography, Ellie becomes Sandie becomes Ellie as a suitor played by Matt Smith twirls them both around the dance floor. Whatever Wright decides to do next, chunks of Last Night in Soho suggest a proper musical should rise to the top of the list. McKenzie plays the first act as mousey, and the third as a decompensating mess, but the energy of the second act, where she’s invigorated by briefly getting everything she’s wanted and is translating it into present success, is a delightful new turn from an actor who’s thus far played serious roles without much room for ecstatic joy.
A character, however, can’t reach an emotional peak thirty minutes in without the inevitable comedown. As Ellie learns more about Sandie’s life, the film turns into something like a puritanical horror film, where the lustful and hedonistic are plunged into hell. Sandie’s dreams of performing get downgraded into dancing, and then get downgraded further into prostitution. Ellie’s return trips turn into red-lit scenes of pure degradation, and provide a thin line between burlesque and bordello. Some of that perspective comes from sheltered Ellie, but the film ratifies it with later plot developments. There’s also a thread of the corrupting urban environment against the wholesome countryside, a tiresome theme that Wright has previously skewered in Hot Fuzz. Here, it’s taken as a fact of life.
Sandie’s broken dreams push Ellie towards the aforementioned breakdown, and while McKenzie is great with a crumbling psyche, the film itself pulls its punches. If Wright wants to imitate Italian horror and its tradition of holding nothing back, then certain things need to happen in the imitation. There are repeated scenes of threatened horror instead of actual horror, like the brakes are slammed on right before the moment of impact and everyone giggles at the close call. One particular moment inexcusably doesn’t end with scissors stabbed through a cheek. Horror demands commitment, and Last Night in Soho is left running away from the altar.
Last Night in Soho skates by on the strength of its two lead performances, and when the film is in line with Wright’s bubbly tone, it’s as good as anything he’s done. The tone management is what starts to falter from a director who’s more comfortable with irony than the sincerity that always creeps into his work. Here, that sincerity takes the form of heightened psychological breakdown and trauma, but Wright can’t fully wrap his hands around it any more than he’s been able to handle any of his films’ big emotional moments. Last Night in Soho doesn’t leave me irritated like some of his work has, but it could’ve been his best if the heights were sustained. C+
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