The Runaways

THE RUNAWAYS makes you long for the days when rock-and-roll was, to
paraphrase Fowley, “a death sport” and making music wasn’t all posture
and preening (No autotune here.). The look-and-feel is right, the
hunger seemingly real and raw. And the music brings on punk-rock
nostalgia in the first few guitar licks. Kudos to director Floria
Sigismondi, and the entire cast she assembled. Shannon, Stewart and
Fanning all bring it, and in style. The film makes good use of
Stewart’s nervous energy; finally, she doesn’t come off angsty, only
raring to go.

But yes, there is a stipulation: The whole enterprise doesn’t
fully gel. Like a band missing that secret ingredient that lifts them
from relative anonymity. The styling’s right, but the substance is not.
Though Currie’s family life as detailed here ostensibly informs her
music and actions, the film goes for the obvious, simplistic
connections. Abandoned child seeks sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll --
blah, blah, blah. But how did she really feel about the music? The same
could be said for Jett here; she remains an enigma. Still, these
mysteries don’t fully prevent having a fairly good time.