KRR: Soho is the Scene of a Ghastly Crime in 'Last Night in Soho.'

A great fear of many film critics - of which I am of the fledgling variety - is that a movie will leave them with nothing to say. Be it a great movie or an abysmal one, that makes little difference. Speechless is speechless.

Take Beckett for example: A gritty, Greece-set, geopolitical thriller starring Alicia Vikander and John David Washington that came to Netflix in August. You probably haven't heard of it, let alone seen it. While that is certainly due in part to the noisier releases sucking up air at the end of the summer, it's also because Beckett received such little critical recognition. And rightfully so. It's a film with ideas so dry they make Greek columns seem chic and visuals that are so uninteresting audiences would have to hold themselves back from looking at their phones. It says nothing and, as a result, had nothing said about it.

Edgar Wright's new psychological horror film, Last Night in Soho, does not suffer the same fate as Beckett. There is plenty of meat on the bone in this dizzying tribute to 1960's film, fashion, and culture. The film follows Ellie (Thomasin McKenzie), a student following in the footsteps of her long-deceased mother by moving to London to go to school for fashion design. She's an isolated, yet friendly young woman, who has spent the majority of her life confined within the retro-fitted walls of her grandmother's rural home. London in the 21st century seems to come as a shock to her. She quickly ditches her college dormitory and makes her way to a rented room straight out of the sixties. In the room Ellie finds solace and a slice of home - the landlady, Ms. Collins (the late Diana Rigg), a stand in for her grandmother - and at night, Ellie (who may or may not have a sixth sense) drifts not into slumber, but into an alternate world: The London of her literal dreams, the center of the cultural universe, a bright ball of music, drink, and sex. Ellie doesn't go back in time as Ellie however. Her out of body experience comes in the form of Sandie (Anya Taylor-Joy), a charismatic blonde with ambitions of singing on Soho's biggest stages. But what begins as a 1960's fantasy escape quickly twists into a nightmare of sexism and violence, one that Ellie seemingly cannot escape even when awake. As Ellie's visions twist from titillating to torment, so too does the film, losing what was once a promising and colorful take on a Hitchcockian thriller and transforming into a carnival of CGI monstrosities, plot holes, and male projections of women's trauma. 

 

-MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD-

Here's a relatively unexplainable little fact about me: I have a soft spot for Petula Clark's "Downtown." So, when I first saw this trailer, I was all in. Sure, yeah, psychological thrillers are my bread and butter, and yes, I love every Edgar Wright movie, and yes, of course, Thomasin McKenzie and Anya Taylor-Joy are two of my absolute favorite actresses working today, but if we're being truly honest, it was the song that hooked me. Had nothing to do with any of the other factors. It was "Downtown" that brought me to the theater.

And, while we're being honest, it was "Downtown" that kept me. The first forty-five minutes of Last Night in Soho are its best, capped off by a haunting performance of "Downtown" by Taylor-Joy to an empty room. The movie, though not perfect, capitalized on the attention it had garnered from me in that opening stretch and made me sit up straight in my seat. McKenzie knows how to let someone else have the spotlight without overshadowing her and it shows in this scene. Matt Smith's Jack, technically the third lead of the film, sits there smug and smoking - which is essentially the only reason his character exists, except when he needs to later inflict violence. And Anya Taylor-Joy is lights out electric. Edgar Wright, a master with music, took the best pieces of his actors and expertise, and he made a perfect scene. That it is set to one of my favorite songs is the cherry on top.

While the "Downtown" scene is the culmination of a wonderful first act, it is also the last scene of its kind. From there on out, Taylor-Joy is put on a leash (both in character and otherwise) thus stopping her from flexing any more muscles, Jack goes from a charming and semi-complex character to a one-dimensional pimp, and the plot begins to trip over itself in ways that suggest even Edgar Wright was unsure of where the movie was headed.

Anya Taylor-Joy as Petula Clark biopic, when?

If the first act of Last Night in Soho is a surreal dream state double life lived between Ellie and Sandie, the second is a confusing indictment of that very premise. As Ellie struggles with her real life classmates and shrugging off infatuated men, from the silver-haired stalker of Soho (Terence Stamp) to her puppy-dog suitor John (Michael Ajao), the line between Sandie and Ellie gets crossed. Suddenly sleep is no longer necessary to see Sandie, Jack, and the nostalgic world of the sixties. Sandie's world, one that was once, for a brief moment, bright and whimsical, has quickly decayed into the lowlight of sex trafficking and violence; and suddenly, that world is around every corner in Ellie's 21st century life.

While that certainly sounds like it an interesting conceit, and it may be, it is handled with the care of a drunkard playing Operation. The camera movements become jerky, the CGI starts to show its seams, and the film drives by plot holes the way I dodge potholes. By the time the film reaches an unnerving and entirely unnecessary scene on Halloween night, it has reached a point of no return. If the film ever had me, it certainly lost me there, as it turned to an unforgiving and, at times, laughable third act.  

Believe it or not, Ellie wears this makeup for a solid 24 hours without anyone saying anything.

Last Night in Soho, once a stylized look at nostalgia and the parallel lives of women (and the dangers that befall them), ultimately ends in a befuddling mess of poor horror tropes, blatantly bad visual effects, and a surface level understanding of violence against women. Villains become victims, victims become villains, and the heroes are hamstringed by the apparently unedited screenplay at the heart of the film. 

Anya Taylor-Joy and Thomasin McKenzie carry this movie as best they can, and there is no doubt that Edgar Wright still makes his movies with all the style in the world. But, when nothing else about the movie works, style and performance only go so far. And while there are plenty of other performances in the movie of note, especially that of Diana Rigg, who passed earlier this year, the less said about them the better. In fact, when it comes to Last Night in Soho, less is more at every turn.

Is it too unkind to say I'm glad Rigg will never know how poor her final film turned out to be?

Less nostalgia, less twists (if they can even be called that), less CGI, less male gaze, less supernatural powers, less of everything would help the majority of the film. That's probably why I should've left the theater after hearing "Downtown." The less of the movie I got, the more I would've enjoyed it. But alas, here we are. Edgar Wright bit off more than he could chew, but he left plenty of meat on the bone for critics like me. Should've left less, Edgar. Should've left less.

Seriously, how does someone mess up a movie about the most relatable thing ever: Dreaming about Anya Taylor-Joy?

Last Night in Soho KRR: 4.3/10