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.