The first thing I did after watching The Last Days of American Crime was to go back and re-read the graphic novel by Rick Remender and Greg Tocchini. I needed to make sure that it was, in fact, as good as I remembered.
First published in 2009, the comic was this slick and seedy noir that was layered on top of a compelling science fiction conceit. With a narrative style inspired by the pulp fiction stylings of Donald E. Westlake and William Gibson, it was a work that was smutty, and violent, without ever being exploitative. What’s more, by rooting itself in character as opposed to plot, it allowed for a compelling story that didn’t get weighed down by needing to constantly explain or justify its setting.
Last Days, the comic, was simply the story of a heist, full of morbid, remorseless characters, and a socio-political system hellbent on keeping them under control. It was very, very good.
This movie, on the other hand, is very, very not.
It’s the near future, and as a final recourse to crime and terrorism, the American government plans to broadcast a signal within its borders that will make it make it impossible for anyone to knowingly commit a crime. When news of this neurological blocker becomes public, the country descends into chaos with everyone seemingly looking to indulge in one last stint of criminality before their free will is taken away from them forever.
Enter: Graham Bricke (Édgar Ramírez). A washed-out career criminal who is hired by the sociopathic Kevin Cash (a hyper-manic Michael Pitt) – the underachieving and estranged heir of a local crime boss – who is looking to cement his legacy by committing the last act of villainy in American history.
Now, I know that you’re thinking. A kitschy crime caper, with plenty of steamy sex and over the top action, set in a perfectly bleak and fully realised vision of an America on the brink? Sounds like an absolute blast. If only this movie had been any one of those things.
Instead, Olivier Megaton, who has spent the better part of his career making pointless sequels to crowd-pleasing actioners like Taken and The Transporter, brings his complete and utter lack of storytelling sensibilities to bear in 158 minutes of sheer tedium.
You know you’re off to a bad start when the movie opens with not one, but two simultaneous voice overs. With both streams of exposition fighting for your attention, each one threatening to drown out the other. Screenwriter Karl Gajdusek seems to have learnt his craft from the Zack Snyder school of spectacular filmmaking. By simply lifting “cool looking” set pieces from the graphic novel, and choosing to ignore character and context, he’s managed to cobble together something that attempts style, but lacks any kind of substance whatsoever.
This isn’t a movie that fails by not living up to its source material. This is a movie that misses the point entirely. It adds unnecessary character motivations (Bricke has a brother with whom we barely spend any time with, but are expected to care about), completely misplays the romantic subplot (broken people don’t “just” end up together), and completely alters and overcomplicates the ending (I won’t give it away, because spoilers).
But worst of all, this movie reduces the role of Graham Bricke to a bit player in his own story. One of the hallmarks of the form is that the audience is never certain as to who has the upper hand. Think Ocean’s Eleven, or The Inside Man. We’re constantly left guessing as to what’s going on and who’s playing whom. Here, Bricke isn’t someone with any agency. He’s a patsy. Dragged along by the machinations of plot, never acting, only reacting. So much so that we, like him, spend most of the movie waiting for something off screen to suddenly swoop in and save the day. (It happens. A lot.)
A heist movie, or any movie in which our heroes are anti-heroes, should be able to evoke a feeling of sympathy for the eternal outsider. How else are we meant to care if these characters live or die? How else are we expected to follow them for over two and a half hours?
One more thing. If you’re making a heist movie, it might be worth putting some thought into the actual heist. The final act of Last Days is insipid, unimaginative, and dull. There’s absolutely no tension. There are no stakes. There is no sense, at any time, that any of these characters are in any real danger. Not that it matters. Because by this point you just want everyone to die already.
(Also, Sharlto Copley is in this. In what feel like scenes from completely different movie that have been randomly stitched into this one for absolutely no reason whatsoever. His character has absolutely no bearing on what happens in this movie.)
An argument could be made that The Last Days of American Crime comes at the absolute worst time. That with everything currently going on in the United States, a movie about authoritarian violence might come off as either insensitive or exploitative.
I disagree.
Good art is crucial in trying times. Art that reflects reality, that satirises it, that speaks truth to power, can be transformative. More so when what you see on screen mirrors what’s actually happening out in the real world. Art like that is urgent. Art like that forces us to think. Art like that becomes more than just another movie, or book, or TV show, or painting.
The Last Days of American Crime is not good art. This is a movie that would be worthless irrespective of when it was released. Go find the book and read that instead.
The Last Days of American Crime
Netflix
158 minutes
Director: Olivier Megaton
Writer: Karl Gajdusek
Cast: Édgar Ramírez, Anna Brewster, Michael Pitt, and Sharlto Copley
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