‘Motor City’ gets noisy without making a peep
We’ve all heard the idiom put up or shut up. And in the case of “Motor City,” the nearly talk-free neo-noir from director Potsy Ponceroli, the ill-fated characters all do the latter. But will audiences put up with the shut up? The answer will surely determine whether such a bold move makes some noise or fades into silence.
Me, I pretty much went with the gimmick. And it is most definitely a gimmick, no doubt intended to mask the vast shortcomings of a rote revenge tale with more holes than a rusted-out Buick. An appropriate metaphor for a shoddy script by Chad St. John that lays its story in the confines of Motown in the years when the U.S. auto industry was at its peak. A time of muscle cars and the fiercely loyal muscleheads who built them.
Guys like Bill Miller (Alan Ritchson), a lug’s lug workin’ for a living on the assembly line by day and seeking a little action in and around Paradise Valley by night. It’s during one of these after-dark excursions that he encounters the blonde and beautiful Sophia (Shailene Woodley), a drug kingpin’s moll in search of an escape from under the thumb of the ruthless Reynolds (Ben Foster). It’s an acquaintance Bill will learn to regret for the rest of his life.
Sound familiar? It should. It’s the set-up for 90 percent of the noirs ever made. And it plays exactly as you’d expect, with Reynolds and his crooked cop pals framing the dope on a phony dope wrap to teach the lunchpailer not to mess with this goon’s girl. But vengeance will be Bill’s come hell or high water. Even if he’s in the joint serving 25 years.
What makes “Motor City” worth your time is all the clever devices Ponceroli employs to tell the tale through a deft combination of striking visuals and classic 1970s hits curated by Detroit native Jack White, who also makes a cameo. Yes, it plays very much like an extended music video, but one with major stars flaunting their ability to convey genuine emotion without moving a lip.
Michiganders will no doubt quibble over the film being shot in, of all places, New Jersey instead of Detroit, but the Garden State presents a reasonable facsimile for a film limited by a minuscule budget. And Ponceroli gets a lot of bang for his few bucks, abetted by cinematographer John Matysiak who’s got this noir thing down pat. The result is a film that’s requisitely gritty and brimming with gloom and foreboding. Oh, and an opportunity for Ponceroli to indulge his obvious affection for slo-mo kill shots.
What’s sure to get moviedom buzzing is a climactic fight to the death inside a closed elevator that will have you chewing your nails to the nub. It’s all very “John Wick,” but far more realistic and in a style that pays homage to the revenge thrillers of the 1970s, from “Death Wish” to “Foxy Brown.”
None of it would work without a terrific ensemble that also includes Ben McKenzie and Pablo Schreiber as Detroit detectives on opposite sides of the good-versus-evil divide. And Lionel Boyce and Amar Chadha-Patel as Bill’s mean when they wannabe allies.
You can tell everyone is welcoming the challenge of performing through posture and expression rather than dialogue. Foster has the easiest task. After all, playing the slimy villain is becoming old hat for the Boston native. He also benefits from an unfortunate disco-era wardrobe of hideous leisure suits and floral-print shirts brilliantly concocted by costume designer Amy Roth.
Woodley, sporting platinum locks, is equally blessed with an assortment of slinky, barely-there gowns and leopard onesies, in addition to the ugly gold waitress uniforms Sophia is forced to don after Reynolds cuts the purse strings. Woodley looks equally comfortable going stylish or borderline bankrupt, depending on the mood and whose bed Sophia is sharing.
Ritchson draws the short end of the stick when it comes to costuming, spending most of the movie either shirtless or wearing a sleeveless shirt, be it in or out of prison. The former model and American Idol contestant is virtually the second coming of the Hulk, projecting the bulging muscles and seething anger of a pro wrestler operating from beneath a hideous wig. You don’t want to mess with this dude. Yet, around Sophia, Bill is as gentle and caring as a sad-eyed puppy. It’s not much of a stretch for the “Reacher” star, but he makes it count.
As does Ponceroli. What his film lacks in originality is compensated for by grand flourishes of good old-fashioned machismo and brawn in service of a host of striking visuals (Love all the vintage cars!) and terrific fight scenes. It doesn’t always hit on every cylinder, but “Motor City” is a vehicle you’ll want to invest in, even if it loses most of its value as soon as it’s driven off the lot. But let’s keep that part quiet.
Movie review
Motor City
Rated: R for some grisly images, drug content, sexuality, nudity, language, strong bloody violence
Cast: Alan Ritchson, Ben Foster, Shailene Woodley, Pablo Schreiber and Ben McKenzie
Director: Potsy Ponceroli
Writer: Chad St. John
Runtime: 103 minutes
Where: In theaters July 24
Grade: B
