It was only a matter of time, in more ways than one. Elements of horror have been a blood-soaked presence in the films of Edgar Wright, from the moment he added a healthy dollop of viscera to his compulsively (re)watchable rom-zom-com "Shaun of the Dead." His next feature, the action buddy comedy "Hot Fuzz," was about as gory, with grisly dispatchings peppered into its bro-mantic riff on shoot-'em-up fare.
But with "Last Night in Soho," the "Baby Driver" and "Scott Pilgrim vs. the World" helmer, known for his playful and genial approach to moviemaking, has made a foray into horror that's less of a genre mashup, even though it wouldn't be a hundred percent accurate to call it straight horror. All the pieces are in place for another delightful jaunt. After all, even when he's not firing on all cylinders, there's an irresistible charm to Wright's gaze, the way he molds his stories so you can't help but see them through his jovial and highly caffeinated point of view. Call it zippy bonhomie.
It has been a long-held assumption of mine that I would sing Wright's praises until the end of his career, since his body of work has been so consistent. The 47-year-old whips up exhilarating merriment, with more than a little cheek. It's popcorn fare that infuses Brit wit into comic book geek catnip. In other words, he had me at "fade in."
Alas, all good things must come to an end, and with "Last Night in Soho," Wright's winning streak comes to a screeching halt. Cue the record scratch.
Wright has crafted a dark and atmospheric odyssey into some of London's spookiest corners that unravels in a miasma of overstylized visuals and lame plotting. What on earth happened? How could this possibly be? A strong, well thought out screenplay is (was?) a Wright specialty, but the writing is the root of the problem here.
To be fair, things don't look so dire at the start. In fact, the first hour or so of this Focus Features release is pretty darn good. We meet our protagonist, aspiring fashion designer Eloise ("Jojo Rabbit's" Thomasin McKenzie), as she prances around her bedroom to a '60s song on her portable record player. She doesn't know it yet, but this country bumpkin has been accepted into a prestigious school of design in London. Her grandmother Peggy (Rita Tushingham) is sad to see her go, but also concerned that her granddaughter might be too fragile to handle the big, bad city on her own. Quick references are inserted about Eloise's late mother (Aimee Cassetari), the mental health issues that were her undoing and, oh yes, Eloise's own ability to see her mum in the mirror.
But the future (or is it the past?) beckons, and off goes Eloise. These early scenes, as the new arrival struggles with the sheer size and hostility of her new home, are full of promise, Wright's very own "Devil Wears Prada" moment. The director, who co-wrote "Soho" with "1917" scribe Krysty Wilson-Cairns, delights in the contemptuous, catty barbs from Jocasta (Synnøve Karlsen), the roommate with whom Eloise gets stuck. The character amounts to a broad caricature of urban toxicity, but Karlsen turns her into a deliciously wicked harpy. Far less interesting is John (Michael Ajao), the blandly likable classmate from a working class background who is clearly nursing a crush on Eloise.
Fashion school is initially the good kind of grind for Eloise, who lets her 1960s fetish guide her. But when she gets fed up with the cliquish negativity in her dorm, she seeks alternate lodging, and finds it in an old, creaky house owned by crusty Mrs. Collins (Diana Rigg in her movie swan song). Her new digs are spacious, retro and full of character.
The bedroom is also a portal to yesteryear, and one night, after she turns in for the night, Eloise is transported to her favorite decade. The wide-eyed ingenue stares in amazement at the marquee of the movie palace showing "Thunderball," which places her in 1965. She strolls into the Café de Paris, and she's confused when an usher asks for her coat. Then she looks at her reflection, and a blond beauty stares back at her.
The young blonde, who calls herself Sandie (Miami native Anya Taylor-Joy) is confident, feisty and always gets what she wants, the very qualities shy, withdrawn Eloise wants for herself. What Sandie wants is to be a successful, universally adored singer, and she has the voice that might just get her there. Slinking into her orbit with bad-boy swagger is Jack (Matt Smith), the sharp dressed cad with a devilish grin who might be her ticket to stardom.
The initial sequence inside the renowned nightclub shows Wright hitting his stride, propelled as it is by a showmanship that's reminiscent of a Golden Age musical. Like the best kind of dream, we don't want it to end. But as her nighttime journeys back in time begin to bleed into her waking hours, the director works overtime to keep up the interplay between past and present. It's a juggling act he can't maintain, and it ends up swallowing the movie whole.
"Last Night in Soho" intends to keep us disoriented, as Eloise becomes certain there's an unsolved murder that she has the capacity to solve. Is she experiencing a supernatural phenomenon, or has she inherited her mother's condition?
When it starts answering that question, "Soho" begins to heads south. Supporting characters like Jocasta are thrown on the back burner. What emerges is a portrait of the loss of innocence hampered by an unsavory puritanical streak. Sexual activity is here inextricably linked to decadence and violence. The men in the film are either dangerous and duplicitous louts like Jack or wholesome nice guys like John, a male variation on the Madonna-whore complex seen in the films of Brian De Palma.
This sex-equals-death fixation climaxes in this film's equivalent of "Psycho's" shower scene. What's missing here is psychological depth. Wright is so busy intercutting the "real" with the "supernatural or imagined" content that both women at the core of this surprisingly moralistic cautionary tale get lost in the shuffle, although McKenzie and Taylor-Joy give it their all. He lets a sea of crimson and twisty whodunit maneuvers take over, marred even further by phantasmagoric imagery that already felt stale in films like, say, "The Exorcism of Emily Rose" back in 2005.
"Last Night in Soho" ends up going down in flames, literally, with a tacked-on resolution that feels closer to a Disney Channel production than a portrayal of evil traveling across a sea of time and nostalgia-driven homages. This is a hollow shell of a movie, a major stumble by a world-class filmmaker. Here's hoping Wright is able to regain his footing, before he gets lost in the shadows all over again.
"Last Night in Soho" is now playing in wide release, including at Regal South Beach, Silverspot Cinema in downtown Miami, The Landmark at Merrick Park in Coral Gables and Dolby Cinema engagements at AMC Sunset Place and other AMC theaters.