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What happens to The Runaways could be applied to a dozen other
manufactured upstart bands: they get to together, become successful and
then capitulate in a sea of cocaine, artistic differences, fame and
fortune. And like The Runaways – the all-girl, teenage punk rock
band headlined by Joan Jett and Cherie Currie – fame is often shortlived.
Active
from ‘75-79, The Runaways were known for their hits "Cherry Bomb" and
"Queens of Noise" (both of which get extended airtime here), but the
band never approached the Beatles or ABBA fame craved by their
cross-dressing, flamboyant manager, Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon). Their
success also lies less with the invention of their music and more from
the freshness of their teenage-rockers-with-attitude image. Radio
stations didn’t know what with them, but they would be pivotal in
facilitating future female rock-n-roll artists such as The Go-Go’s.
Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart as rebellious teen rockers in “The
Runaways”
One
thing they had was a lot of energy, and there’s a lot of that in Floria
Sigismondi’s exciting, if overly broad, film. We follow Jett (Kristen
Stewart) and Currie (Dakota Fanning) from their first meeting. Jett is
an wannbe rhythm gutairst, while Currie worships David Bowie and is
heckled of the stage while performing his “Lady Grinning Soul” at her
school talent show. They’re introduced by Fowley, who takes them to a
crusty RV and bellows at them to play up their aggression and sexuality
(upon meeting Currie, he asks how old she is. She says she’s fifteen, to
which he snaps, “Jail fucking bait. Jack fucking pot! “). In this
setting they improvise the riff of “Cherry Bomb,” and with it their
signature brash, aggressive sound.
Soon
they’re on tour in Japan (where they found the most success),
confronting screaming fans and indulging in too many stimulants. There
they perform in a post-coitus, drug-induced stupor in a scene that
features a 15-year old Dakota Fanning in a corset; that brilliant
actress is not a little girl anymore. Soon their excessive lifestyle
becomes wearying, and Currie’s random provocative photo shoot plays
havoc with the production of their next album; “Publicize the music, not
your fucking crotch!” screams Jett.
While
The Runaways goes nowhere not seen in a dozen other musical
biopics, and offers little in the way of specific insight into its
characters, the performances are excellent. Kristen Stewart nails the
more emotionally mature guitarist and her particular mannerisms. Don’t
believe the Twi-haters, this girl can act, and it’s her character with
which the audience identifies. Fanning is even better, perfectly
capturing Currie’s bewildering discovery of her sexuality and inability
to cope with her increasingly out-of-control lifestyle. And Shannon is
magnetic and convincing as their manic producer – Fowley may be camp,
but Shannon’s performance certainly isn’t.
There
is an effective a side-plot involving Currie’s envious, at-home, sister
(Riley Keough) caring for their ailing father (Brett Cullen), but the
heart of the film lies in the rebellious spirit of their music. Stewart
and Fanning’s recreations of these songs are impressive, and they’re
staged with the editing fervour expected of a music video director (this
is Sigismondi’s first feature). Like the band, The Runaways, the
film, is less about substance, than about the show. And there’s
absolutely nothing wrong with that. |
