How does a filmmaker evolve that divine essence that separates enduring storytellers from a finite set of gimmicks? Hollywood has always had a penchant for curating auteurs, directors of a distinctive authorship, but even these gifted artists teeter on running the full gamut of their unique bags of tricks without proper self-intervention. Someone like Martin Scorsese extensively understands that innovation is key, astutely skewing his lifeblood, the crime genre, in the devastatingly bleak 2019 film The Irishman.
However, if they are keen on retaining their trademarks, filmmakers can always expand their respective repertoires by reflecting on more contemporary issues. Ridley Scott, for example, seems to be ushering in a thrilling new chapter of his esteemed career by exploring systemic sexism in the recently released (and quite good) The Last Duel and the forthcoming House of Gucci.
In his latest endeavor Last Night in Soho, acclaimed director Edgar Wright, one of our most inventive cinematic craftsmen, seems to be extensively adhering to Scott’s trajectory, but he fundamentally misunderstands the #MeToo subtext he desperately tries to attain, botching it in the midst of his arresting visual splendor.
From the adrenaline-fueled redemption arc of Baby Driver to the anime-effused misfit exploits of Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, Wright’s ethos has always been defined by nuggets of morality tales pulsed with his signature blend of zippy energy and acerbic wit, imbuing preexisting influences with his own texture. Last in Soho, however, sees him dramatically pivoting to psychological horror fixtures like Alfred Hitchcock and the giallo films of the 1970s and, with it, heftier themes on the intersection between nostalgia and cultural misogyny. While it’s aesthetically stimulating to witness him seamlessly transfer from the vibrantly and starkly comedic to the lushly suspenseful, he can’t quite adjust his gleefully brash style in a way that doesn’t stifle this certain substance.
The past has a deceptive way of concealing its malice that reverberates into today, and it distorts our perception of reality by exerting its own ideals upon us, our nostalgia. The wide-eyed and ambitious Eloise (Thomasin McKenzie) hails from the England countryside and moves to London in pursuit of her aspirations to become a fashion designer, and the only thing more unsettling than Eloise’s occasional visions of her deceased mother or achingly relatable pariah status at her new college is her almost oblivious obsession with 1960s London, that deliriously luxurious renaissance of bustling music and lavish clothing.
What she especially doesn’t realize is that there’s actual terror embedded into this very era that breeds her delusion. When she moves into the upstairs apartment of quaint and exceedingly dubious elderly woman Ms. Collins (Diana Rigg), she receives a firsthand lesson in this latent toxicity as she’s transported back to this particular setting via her nightly dreams and through the perspective of Sandie (Anya Taylor-Joy), an aspiring singer.
Their shared experience in the past is initially quite dazzling and explicitly that euphoric escape from the present’s mundanity that Eloise had been seeking, but Sandie is eventually subjugated by sinister record manager Jack (Matt Smith) in quite salacious fashion, harrowingly illuminating the seeds of cultural misogyny that were planted then and continue to be reaped today.
Especially considering what lurks in its corners, London has never been as fabulous as portrayed, and that disillusionment instilled in Eloise is compelling in a solid first act, propelled by an unnerving mystique. It’s just a shame that the rest of the story is about as weightless as her fabrics.
Both literal and metaphorical specters of some of history’s most vile elements – namely the patriarchy – inform the landscape of Last Night in Soho, but Wright reduces its ideas to fodder for stylistic indulgence. He deftly suffuses the film with a beguiling aesthetic that is somehow both lurid and chic, captured brilliantly by the mesmerizing, neon-hued cinematography, but Wright’s discreet tension in the initial third eventually dissipates to reveal his utter lack of thematic conviction and a repetitive structure plagued by egregiously trite jump scares.
For all its panache, Last Night in Soho aims to dissect a uniquely female trauma yet does so through an obtuse male gaze. McKenzie and Taylor-Joy are two of our most captivating actresses working today, with the former embodying great vulnerability and the latter evoking a scintillating screen presence of classic Hollywood, but at a certain point, seeing their characters’ turmoil exploited for vapid, cluttered set-pieces becomes too grueling.
Considering this timely subtext, Wright’s lack of empathy is appalling. Last Night in Soho can’t seem to tread the same tricky tightrope as something like Promising Young Woman in balancing subversive genre flair with nuanced underpinnings, and the underlying pastiche is simply and completely superficial.
Wright has always been able to transcend “style over substance” criticism when his work is about experiencing the inherent, vigorous thrills that he gleans from compact ideas, and this ratio is unfortunately disproportionate when approaching more complex themes. More frenetic than kinetic, Last Night in Soho may have been one of 2020’s most anticipated films when it was delayed, but like the corrosive fulfillment we try to derive from nostalgia’s deceits, it’s currently a colossal, crippling disappointment. In an age where the female gaze has revolutionized women-driven stories in films like Hustlers, Zola and the aforementioned Promising Young Woman, it’s incredibly disheartening to witness reductive material like this.
Grade: C-
Last Night in Soho is now available in theaters.
Photo Credit / Focus Features
