4/5
Holy Mary, did this movie throw me for some loops. As soon as I was preparing to write it off, things caught fire and spun so out of control that the movie took on a Peckinpah-like quality in its degradation into violence. I admit to being skeptical during its beginning scenes, but for those like me, be patient. Once it finally gets some coal in its furnace, it does not let up, and I cannot stress enough how gruesome it can be in some of its turns.
The film begins with the middling roadshow successes of a smalltime punk band. They travel the country on tour, whatever gigs they land seemingly discovered along the way. This is the rock ’n roll life, at last to them. They have no intention of going mainstream, but they’re beginning to feel the financial pinch that comes with their obscurity. So when they’re ripped off by a college rocker promising them a full house, they’re ready to call things quits. But to compensate for the botched gig, the man makes them one last offer: a show at a stashed-away venue home to a white supremacist cult. They’re in no position to refuse.
They arrive at the venue, and it certainly looks inconspicuous enough — a doom speller for anyone familiar with this kind of movie. The show itself, despite the band being assaulted with boos and beer cans (boos and booze?), turns out okay, much to the surprise of both the band and the audience. They’re immediately shuffled off the stage and told to wait in their new waiting room while their old room is occupied by the headliners. But before they can, the bassist of the band (Anton Yelchin) tries to get back into the room to collect their cell phones and walks in on a horrific sight: a young girl, dead on the floor. He quickly dials 911, but before he can finish reporting the stabbing, his phone is snatched away by the concert organizers. The band’s circumstances soon become frighteningly clear: nobody is going anywhere.
I’m never sure how much of a story I should sell you in my reviews, but for this film in particular, the less said the better. Things chug along with such pace and intensity that it eventually becomes less about predicting the next twist and more about leaning back and watching a tight situation slowly go up in flames. Unfortunately, the characters become a bit lost to the roles they pay in the unfolding of the plot, so much so they we don’t ever know them as much as we’d like. But they remain compelling due to fine work by fine young actors, the standouts of which are Imogen Poots, Anton Yelchin, and Alia Shawkat. They manage to make a group of whiny punk kids relatable because they appear to function with the same logic and trepidation that you would in their crisis.
There were moments when I wished the film had pushed its underlying mystery a bit further–– for a movie about punk rockers facing down a group of neonazis, you kind of wonder if it makes too much sense for its own good–– but looking back, I’m thankful that it played things close to the chest. It gives the brief bursts of violence a chance to stand out that much more, and boy foo they stand out. There is a scene involving a gnarled arm that disgusted me more than any scene in quite in quite awhile. Well done.
As a piece of a direction, Green Room is thrilling in the way it maintains its sense of quiet, controlled ignition. Here is a director who is ascending the ranks without forgetting the things that can make movies such cracking entertainment. The filmmaker, Jeremy Saulnier of Blue Ruin fame, moves things forward without ever stopping to impress us along the way. Don’t let that turn you away; it’s as the highest complimentI could pay a director. The movie is quite stylish, but only in the indie film sense of the word, the sense you get from stories well told rather than techniques effectively shown.
I haven’t spoken about what I assume will be the centerpiece of discussion in most reviews, the presence of Patrick Stewart. Who he is in the film, I will not say, but I’ll tell you that is was a pleasure to see Stewart done justice by a role that could have so easily settled for cartoonishness and self-parody. He occupies his character fully without every ruining his enigma; the script keeps intentions buried deeply enough for Stewart to sketch the character for the audience rather than reveal things as they become convenient.
Spencer Moleda is a freelance writer, script supervisor, and motion picture researcher residing in Los Angeles, California. His experience ranges from reviewing movies to providing creative guidance to fledgling film projects. You can reach him at: [email protected]
Spencer Moleda is a freelance writer, script supervisor, and motion picture researcher residing in Los Angeles, California. His experience ranges from reviewing movies to providing creative guidance to fledgling film projects. You can reach him at: [email protected]