Last Night in Soho

Last Night in Soho

And to think, I was actually pretty excited for this one.

I've never particularly enjoyed Edgar Wright's movies. He's an average director and a shitty screenwriter who thinks that using Chekhov's gun twenty times constitutes a satisfying story. He neutered Scott Pilgrim, directed one of the most boring zombie movies in recent memory, and continually confuses the constant use of vaguely catchy tunes as "style" while forgetting to write compelling characters or develop his themes.

Last Night in Soho is too polished to be a throwback to Giallo, too repetitive in its scares to be an effective horror film, and laughably incompetent in its handling of misogyny. For a film obsessed with the dangers of nostalgia, it is stunningly naive about the tropes it engages in. Another woman losing her mind because of a phenomenon only she can see and being labeled crazy by the authorities? The clique of popular girls talking shit in the bathroom while the object of their ire sits a stall over? Fuck off, I've read student screenplays more self-aware than this.

The only aspect even vaguely surprising is that Thomasin McKenzie acts circles around Anya Taylor-Joy, who makes maybe three facial expressions over the entire runtime. And even then, McKenzie is too little too late to save a film that squanders the massive amount of potential it had.

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