Last Night in Soho is Wright’s weakest feature and a perfect metaphor for a night out in Soho – it starts wonderfully and with excited anticipation, then you drink one too many stylish cocktails, and your night is over before it’s begun.
Edgar Wright has dabbled in horror for a long time – Shaun of the Dead is a valentine to the zombie genre, and Hot Fuzz is part-slasher, part-Wicker Man. However, Wright has never fully embraced the genre because his postmodern, self-aware style often forecloses any genuine scares or shocks. So when his first post-Baby Driver project was announced as a full return to horror, many became feverishly excited for the delightful frights Wright had in store. With his hints of a Don’t Look Now tone and style alongside the Swinging Sixties focus, it sounded like a modern British horror that paid homage to its elders. Last Night in Soho indeed drips style, but perhaps it’s a little too much.
Thomasin McKenzie plays our country bumpkin, Eloise, a Cornish girl with latent psychic abilities and an obsession with all things 1960s, especially fashion. McKenzie may fear being typecast as the typical young teenager, but she’s perfectly cast in Last Night, even down to the age (both actor and character, eighteen). Eloise’s quiet reserve and slightly awkward demeanour are skilfully reflected in McKenzie’s portrayal, like a quiet country mouse overcome by the sheer magnitude of the metropolitan capital.
The city is overwhelming, but the people are less so – Synnøve Karlsen’s infinitely grating Jocasta is a hilariously relatable ‘it’ girl with a fatal diagnosis of Main Character Syndrome. There’s also newcomer Michael Ajao’s John, the romantic foil to Jocasta’s cliquey malice. Disappointingly, both seem deliberately employed to push the narrative along, counteracting each other to push Eloise further. It seems everyone Wright introduces in his first act is a mere narrative chess piece he can manipulate to get us where he needs to go.
Once we are finally into the Swinging Sixties, it’s clear this is where Wright wants to play. Neon lights and nightclub stage lights drape scenes in a giallo-esque glow while the melodically enchanting ‘60s soundtrack imbues us with a similar sense of nostalgia to Eloise.
When Anya Taylor-Joy finally appears on screen, it is a revelation. Everything about her screams ‘60s movie starlet, perfectly encapsulating Sandie without a single word. Her presence grips you like a velvet vice, bewitching you with every move and sentence. Something about Taylor-Joy has captured the world, and Wright seems to amplify it in Soho, understanding the true theatrical weapon that is Anya Taylor-Joy.
Chung Chung-hoon’s cinematography captures the psychological melding of Eloise and Sandie through this mirrored doubling, a Duck Soup gag turned psychological. Chung-hoon gradually warps this funhouse trick into a transparent cage, locking Eloise and Sandie apart. This is where Wright’s kinetic style picks up once more, if only fleetingly – Taylor Joy’s dance with Matt Smith’s nefarious Jack throws Eloise in and out of the action, with every visually exciting sway. When Eloise’s psychological grip begins to weaken, Chung-hoon leans in as colours scream and bleed down the screen, shots kaleidoscoping into a hundred iterations of themselves. When Sandie starts to lose her grip on herself and reality, Edgar Wright really delivers a visual feast, as scenes blur into one another, fighting for their own moment.
It’s clear that Last Night in Soho is Wright’s deliberate attempt to break out of the mould he’s created over the last two decades, shedding the hyper-kinetic style and placing a woman as his lead for the first time. It’s always refreshing to see a director try to break new ground; however, in doing so, Wright loses the punchy dynamism and opts for a simplistic, by-the-numbers script. Eloise is subjected to the ever-so-stereotypical debate of, “Is this really happening, or is it just mental collapse?” One of the most tired narrative clichés of modern horror. There are also elements of Eloise that aren’t elaborated on, such as her sixth sense – how can she see her mother? Why is she even there?
Wright’s penchant for hedonistic, whimsical Sixties stylings leaves him unable to truly justify much of the endgame of Last Night in Soho. Some narrative beats are coming from a mile away, while others leave you scratching your head over their point beyond a quick ‘Oh, wow!’ Much of the true horror comes from a direction that feels uncomfortable and perhaps not Wright’s place to tread. Those aware of Soho’s history will understand what may be alluded to. It’s simply unusual for a director with such an understanding of genre conventions and stereotypes to fall into those same cliches and tropes. Wright’s Valentine feels intelligent because of that self-referentiality, and perhaps that’s what is missing here.
Unfortunately, Last Night in Soho is not the Soho spooktacular I had been hoping for; instead, it feels like a director who wanted to play in the Sixties and ultimately rushed to get there before his ideas were fully formed. While it’s Wright’s weakest feature, it’s by no means a bad film. In a way, it’s a perfect metaphor for a night out in Soho – it starts wonderfully and with excited anticipation, then you drink one too many stylish cocktails, and your night is over before it’s begun.
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