Continuing my catchup, here’s Edgar Wright’s latest release...
Wright’s certainly been an inspiration to newer generations of filmmakers—going from making elaborate amateur flicks with his friends to creating a new generation of fast-paced, snappily-written, and impeccably memorable comedies with the iconic Cornetto Trilogy. Each of those films, thanks also in part to Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, had something going for it, and Hot Fuzz in particular has been dissected down to the molecule for its script. Even if you haven’t seen it in a while, I’d bet you can probably recite half the dialogue right now.
However, Wright’s been quieter in output recently, with his previous major release being Baby Driver—while it was a decent enough flick, it doesn’t seem to have had much staying power, and had the grave misfortune of casting Kevin Spacey as a pseudo-fatherly role to a younger man. While it might not be strictly the movie’s fault, it has nevertheless caused it to age as well as jam in a fungus farm within the space of just a few years. With that in mind, Edgar’s nevertheless making a comeback now with gallio-style sixties-themed horror Last Night in Soho—question is, does it return him to form?
Partially, but there’s a big caveat I’ll get to later. I’ll admit, I enjoyed the first half or so, with Thomasin Mackenize as an enthusiastic young fashion designer with a passion for the Swinging’ Sixties. There’s enough relatability in her trying to get set in amid the hustle and bustle of modern London Soho to get the viewer’s empathy—which in theory makes her tribulations to come all hit all the harder. Wright’s style kicks into full gear once she finds herself being able to I guess astrally project back to 1966, recreated with all the indulgence a retro lover can muster (and Wright, born in the seventies, is certainly indulging himself as much as the main character here).
Once she starts getting embroiled across time and space with dancer Sandy (Anya Taylor-Joy), that’s when the supernatural twisted ness comes into play—and for a time, combined with Matt Smith’s performance as shady underworld character Jack, there’s shocks to enjoy. The problem is that before long the jump scares start to become a little stale, and the script’s effort to inject some ambiguity into the proceedings falls flatter still. Thomasin puts in enough for you to feel her fraying sanity, but the writing isn’t keeping up as well.
This would all be fine, if not for the payoff—and unfortunately this is where the film completely stumbled for me. The climax for me had one of the biggest recent cases of a film trying to have its cake and eat it—it’s not quite as bad as if Silence of the Lambs tried to make you suddenly feel sorry for Buffalo Bill, but it veered that way for me at least. And when the film did manage to provide some flashes of Wright’s energy beforehand, it made it all the more frustrating.
Some people might be able to look past that forever, and while I certainly enjoyed a fair part of the film, I could still name quite a few better contemporary horror pieces. It won’t taint Wright like Baby Driver might, but for me, it’s certainly not going to etch itself as classic as his comedies will. Still, it won’t stop me from checking out whatever else he may have in the future—there’s a chance for a full comeback yet.
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