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.