‘This is London. Someone has died in every room in every building and on every street corner in the city...’
Had master director Edgar Wright retired after the Cornetto Trilogy, he could look back on a career well spent safe in the knowledge that he had achieved more in three films than most directors do in a lifetime. Instead, he followed the wild success of those movies with probably the best comic book adaptation ever made (Scott Pilgrim vs the World), a wonderfully executed genre exercise (Baby Driver) and a hugely acclaimed music documentary (The Sparks Brothers). One genre he hasn’t tackled however, despite his undying passion for the subject matter, is horror. And this is a horror film ladies and gentlemen, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Country mouse Eloise Taylor (Thomasin McKenzie) has always dreamed of studying fashion at a prestigious London university. Once there however, the reality (such as it is) isn’t quite what she had hoped for. Soon, her daydreams about a beautiful girl named Sandy (Anya Taylor-Joy) and her controlling boyfriend Jack (Matt Smith) begin to invade her reality.
There is no denying that Wright has assembled a cast to die for here, but it is his own skill as a director that is the real star of the show. The Hitchcockian, nay, Kafkaesque plot. The sumptuous use of Giallo reds and greens. The inimitable sound editing. Last Night in Soho is one of Hollywood’s finest directors at the peak of his powers. This is Polanski’s Apartment Trilogy for the 21st century. The isolation of the big city. The loss of identity. Wright perfectly captures the feeling of being alone in a room full of crowded people. This is the London of Irvine Welsh. The London of Jarvis Cocker. The London that only reveals itself to outsiders who are swallowed whole and then spat out into the cold, unfeeling streets. And what a cast to bring this place alive…
Taylor-Joy, effortlessly cool, dazzles once more. McKenzie is right there with her. A literal mirror image. A character so vulnerable and so fragile that it’s impossible not to root for her. Matt Smith exuding charm and sleaze and menace and everything else that embodies the historic streets of Soho. And Diana Rigg. Doncaster’s own. Elegant and regal to the end.
This is what happens when a proper director, a proper auteur, is given the resources to paint his picture on 34-foot-wide canvas. This is what cinema should be. And in thirty years time, when nobody can remember what MCU stands for and every actor to have worn the Batsuit has faded from memory, new audiences will still be discovering Last Night in Soho and falling in love all over again.
Goodnight sweetheart.