A rebel yawn of a rock n’ roll biopic, The Runaways focuses on the rise and fall of the titular ‘70s
all-girl group and, specifically, the twin paths taken by leather-and-growl
lead guitarist/songwriter Joan Jett and Fawcett-glamorous singer Cheri Currie. In
the hands of writer/director Floria Sigismondi, said stories were marked only
by clichés about broken homes, the primal sexuality of punk rock, and the
dangerous allure of drugs and stardom. Despite being the only band member of
any note (sorry Lita Ford, here functioning as just a screamy malcontent), Jett
(Kristen Stewart) is reduced by the film to a mere fashion-model cipher,
defined by her leather jacket, matching black hair and too-cool-for-everyone
nods, winks and bisexual come-ons. Stewart isn’t to blame for the fact that the
character, stripped of a history or personality, is a nothing, but – despite
avoiding her usual lip-biting – the actress nonetheless can’t even get the
poses quite right, her every riot-grrrl act coming off as dress-up affectation.
In the phoniness department, she’s matched by Fanning, who struts about in
skimpy whore lingerie with the bruises and glassy eyes of a junkie, and
unconvincingly spouts vile like “You’re nothing but a filthy pussy.” True,
Cheri is given a backstory involving her absentee mom, alcoholic dad, and the
loyal sister whom she callously abandons in favor of chasing her superstar
dreams. Yet these sequences, like the countless scenes of on-the-road
debauchery and tossed-off mentions about how the Runaways’ fem-rock is trailblazing,
are watery stuff, sketched hastily and without care for novelty or vitality. All
the twirling, drug-smeary camerawork can’t mask the emptiness of The Runaways, a film with zero to say
about either its characters or its music milieu, instead vainly falling back on
the Runaways’ decent song catalog, an air of reckless lasciviousness, and a
typically gonzo performance by Michael Shannon (as outrageous music producer Kim
Fowley) to prop up dramatically barren material.
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