Right from the first turn of the ignition, director Potsy Ponciroli lets us know that the things we might expect of an action film set in ’70s Detroit are exactly the things he intends to deliver. A stream of gas-guzzling sedans, a neon motel sign, a load of sawn-off shotguns (remember them?) and a big guy doing a Tom Selleck roll over the hood, despite being already peppered with bullets and having a knife buried in his arm — all the stuff you may recall from Miami Vice, but without the restrictions of primetime. And that’s all before the first title. What Motor City does not have is dialogue. Well, none to speak of, anyway. I’ve read that it has four lines but I counted five, three of which were “I loved you!”, “I loved her” and “I still do”, which tells the story in a nutshell.
John Miller (Alan Ritchson) is an auto factory worker who gets framed for a big coke deal by a jealous clubland king called Reynolds (Ben Foster), working in cahoots with a detective who is as crooked as a country mile. As he sees it, Miller stole his tastiest hostess, Sophia, from under his nose. Now he has asked her to marry him, a plan that Reynolds is determined to nix. A drug bust will do the trick.
Most of the story happens in the dark, although there is the obligatory daytime travelling shot of the filthy, crumbling streets of Detroit through a car window. You’re expecting it; it comes on cue. This is the kind of film where you can tell a man’s angry because he kicks the nearest garbage bin: you expect that, too, even if nobody does that in real life. Every story element, in fact, is as a familiar stalwart of ’70s narratives, in the same way that sawn-off shotguns and polyester body shirts are props that embody an era. We’ve seen them all; we love them still. Most importantly, we know exactly how to read them. Having people talk as well would be superfluous.
Online, there are already enthusiasts describing Motor City as “experimental”. That’s more than a stretch. What it is, in fact, is a dazzling demonstration of how well film-makers and their audiences understand the vocabulary of cinema and of genre cinema in particular. Miller is a victim of rough justice; as sure as night follows night in this version of Detroit, he is going to come back for revenge. Ponciroli and his editor Joe Galdo — who definitely deserves a mention here — also have a terrific grasp of pace, pushing the pedal to the metal from the outset and keeping it there.
No words doesn’t mean silence: quite the opposite, in fact. There are layers of grunts and bangs; there is an increasingly insistent electronic score by Steve Jablonsky and, loudest of all, there are numerous ’70s needle drops that fully exploit the melodrama of prog rock. Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain” is the film’s most quoted musical reference, but hearing the full orchestration of the Moody Blues’ “Nights in White Satin” blasted over a shoot-out is like the wind hitting your face through a broken windscreen. Executive producer and favored son of Detroit Jack White reportedly had a hand in this track list; he also has a teeny-tiny cameo moment.
As this film proves, cliches are often cliches because they work. Of course, some cliches are nothing but lazy thinking. The characterization of Sophia, for example, makes the hard-boiled dames of film noir look like nuns. Almost as soon as Miller’s in the pen, seen slogging out his hours in the exercise yard, she’s back with the evil Reynolds, swathed in mink and living in Michigan’s equivalent of a Tuscan villa. Even Shailene Woodley’s natural warmth on screen can’t convince us that two men would spend their lives fighting for her favors. There are also plot holes that could sink a truck, like Miller going on a rampage as an escaped prisoner with — apparently — not a single cop on his tail.
Enjoy Motor City as pastiche, however, and the nonsensical bits can just about be read as part of the film’s retro charm. Ponciroli has directed a few films now, notably the bleak western Old Henry with Tim Blake Nelson, but his background is in music videos. Motor City has that kind of slickness, vigor and occasional knowing winks at the audience; it’s only rock’n’roll, after all. When Foster’s Reynolds is on the dance floor in his white suit, for example, the character’s exaggerated sense of his own style reminds us less of John Travolta than Peter Sellers doing the twist in Lolita: he’s just a chancer with absurd sideburns. Taken in this spirit, Motor City is as much fun as you want to make it.
Title: Motor CityFestival: Venice (Spotlight)Director: Potsy PonciroliScreenwriter: Chad St. JohnCast: Alan Ritchson, Shailene Woodley, Ben Foster, Pablo Schreiber, Ben McKenzie, Lionel Boyce, Amar Chadha-Patel, Rafael CebriánSales: Black BearRunning time: 1 hr 43 mins
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