Last Night in Soho

Last Night in Soho

Last Night in Soho is a painfully misguided, infuriatingly tone-deaf, obnoxiously over-stylised and cliché ridden mess that has a decent start but ruins itself in the second half when it gets into the serious subject matter.

First and foremost, the writing is convoluted and inept. To put it simply: Wright does not know how to write women. He presents here his most one-noted characters who lead this wannabe genius psychological thriller - a story that lacks intricacy, emotional depth, and what Wright is best known for: humour. It's nice to see Wright taking a different approach and as a film with so much potential, his exclusion of rowdy energy could have made for a great switch-up, but alas, Wright can't do a "serious film", and so it crumbles under its weight.

As if the abysmal writing wasn't bad enough, the execution of its ideas is even worse. Wright delves into some really heavy material in the second half (which I won't go too deep into because it's in spoiler territory) and completely fumbles it. What begins as a nonsense critique of the fetishization of the past evolves into a hollow exploration of trauma, mental health and sexual assault - an exploitative and offensive one at that. For it to work, the film would need empathy, which it lacks; instead, it justifies the wrong things. Our characters are simply puppets for this illogical idea - a film that feels like a sloppy mash-up of two halves that don't work together.

The film's superficial and predictable nature contradicts the point it was attempting to make (if there was one at all), and the result is a bland, distasteful, and seemingly half-assed dumpster fire. The year's biggest letdown, and a complete waste of a talented cast and intriguing concept. Genuinely embarrassing.

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