VENICE 2021: Last Night in Soho
Universal PicturesEdgar Wright's latest feature, Last Night in Soho, is the long-anticipated return from the fan-favourite director in almost five years. His latest release, much like his predecessing film Baby Driver in 2017, is a tonally different and first venture into new ground, more or less, for the creative. More or less, since Wright has dabbled in the horror genre with 2004’s Shaun of the Dead as well as taken quite a concentrated fancy to genre cinema with each of his features taking on a considerable new genre idealogy with each formulation. So, Wright should return another corker? Well, the end result of Last Night in Soho offers nothing but an underwhelming and derivative bore.
First and foremost, it would seem that Edgar Wright, much like Wes Anderson with The Life Aquatic of Steve Zissou, is entering a second wind of sorts in aesthetic and in regards to his filmography. If Baby Driver was not convincing enough that the director has changed shape, then Last Night in Soho undeniably confirms such. This is nothing in the same vein of tone or aesthetic as Wright showed in his Cornetto Trilogy and, in the same vein as Baby Driver, takes a conventional genre and does absolutely nothing unique or interesting with it.
Granted, what is present is a surprising amount of social commentary and allegorical influence upon the story and iconography. Harvey Weinstein, MeToo, and the casting couch are explicit and instrumental influences on this material. While on their own, elements are harrowing and torrid stories of women abused and tortured by a disgusting misogynistic society that exploited power dynamics. On the surface, the use here feels as if this narrative motif gives justice and voice to these stories, however, the feature swiftly takes upon a new tone and ultimately feels intrusive and tone-deaf to recontextualise in vision of camp horror in a society that has yet to heal such wounds. Why Wright, who has never dared to truly indulge in social commentary, has decided to begin in this film – above all else in his career – remains quite a mystery, but his hand put the ink to paper, and the result is poorly implemented.
The director, simply put, does not have the nuance or cinematic maturity to detail these themes in their poignancy and subtlety within the structure of this feature. This is a sentiment that feels overly harsh, due to Wright pushing himself within his art form and medium in regards to tone and genre – of course, such an element should be commended, but the execution is vastly off.
Wright’s usual motif of cinematic homages are here with Psycho, Peeping Tom and The Shining brazenly on show; but what about the cinematic conventions of Wright himself? Well, nothing much in the way of impressive is shown on that front. The editing, charisma, and energy are as lifeless as the ghosts that entail this venture. The usual editing conventions of Wright feel missing, and in its place, poorly and clearly engineered CGI edits are pieced together that throw the magic that Wright is known for. The cinematography, overall, aside from strong use of neon which is now a personality trait, offers a lack of depth or temperament and fails to convey mood and emotive power.
Equally as frustrating is the feature’s excessive use of CGI that is not used in a trickling effect but to quite a constant and overbearing extent. Primarily used to build the world rather than small details, these environments look flat and carry no weight, often looking increasingly rudimentary and unimaginative – specifically in the final third – and only reinforces the unconscious state that this feature capitulates into.
Speaking of underwhelming, just as ineffective is the film's use of iconography overall. Such elements of the film fail to excite any form of emotion on either level of the tone of the feature, that be in thriller or horror. No emotion is elicited throughout their conviction – or lack thereof. Again, the implication is here, but the execution is far from the desired effect.
This perfectly leads to the performances: lifeless could not be a better word to describe Anya Taylor Joy and Matt Smith. Of whom are used accordingly as simplistic, decorative measures rather than three-dimensional characters; this feature demands emotional immersion. They are the feature’s pinnacle to dictate mood and precedent of theme as well as craft depth and emotive disposition for Thomasin McKenzie to take forward and build. Moreover, they are merely aesthetic and set designs with little-to-no depth and personality. Even the basics of costume and set design offer little reward in world-building or mere interest in the film itself.
At least Thomasin McKenzie is given a role to strut her stuff, and she does so rather well here – all things considered with a tripe and flat screenplay. McKenzie, no doubt. has much the screen time and narrative but very little weight. Made more problematic is the film’s inferred mental illness convention that is only implied and not outright stated, which only makes this redundant mess even more painful to sit through since it did not even have the bottle to follow through with such a basic convention in modern-day horror.
Last Night in Soho feels like the second chapter in a sad state of affairs considering Edgar Wright's filmography. A once fun, entertaining and genuinely energetic director has seemingly lost touch with what worked, and now in its place are flat and uninspired features that would instead arrive half-arse than arrive fully fledged and capable of being, in any sense of the word, compelling.
