Venice’s latest darling has roared into town, and honey, it’s serving pure, unfiltered swagger. “Motor City” blazes across the festival screen like a souped-up Mustang on a midnight run – proving that sometimes the loudest statements come wrapped in silence.
Potsy Ponciroli’s neo-noir fever dream feels like stumbling into a time capsule from an era when cinema wasn’t afraid to flex its muscles. Think less “Fast & Furious” bombast, more Steve McQueen in “Bullitt” – though even that comparison feels a touch reductive.
The setup? Pure pulp excellence. Alan Ritchson’s John Miller – a Detroit assembly line worker with shoulders broader than a Cadillac’s front end – finds himself tangled in a cocaine frame-job courtesy of Ben Foster’s absolutely delicious turn as a nightclub kingpin. Those sideburns of his? Darling, they deserve their own SAG card.
But here’s where things get interesting. Ponciroli (fresh off 2021’s “Old Henry”) has pulled off something rather remarkable. “Motor City” straddles the line between art-house experimentation and Friday night crowd-pleaser with the grace of a tightrope walker in steel-toed boots. His music video roots shimmer through every frame like chrome in sunshine – and trust me, that’s no backhanded compliment.
Speaking of music – can we pause to appreciate the audacity? Detroit’s prodigal son Jack White (who sneaks in a blink-and-miss-it cameo that’s already lighting up social media) has helped craft a soundtrack that transforms violence into visual poetry. When “The Chain” kicks in during that third-act chase? Pure cinema magic. And don’t even get me started on that “Nights in White Satin” sequence – it’s enough to make Scorsese himself reach for his notepad.
The film’s minimal dialogue – we’re talking five lines total, including a gloriously melodramatic “I loved you!” – could’ve played like a student film gimmick. Instead, editor Joe Galdo turns it into a masterclass in visual storytelling. The pacing hits like a sledgehammer to the heart, never letting up, never apologizing.
Not everything purrs like a well-tuned engine, mind you. Shailene Woodley’s Sophia feels trapped in amber, a character written with all the depth of a puddle in the Mojave. It’s a rare misstep in an otherwise forward-thinking piece, though perhaps that’s part of the point – a deliberate nod to the genre’s problematic past.
Foster, bless his scene-stealing heart, clearly got the memo about what kind of movie he’s in. Strutting through scenes in a white suit that would make Tony Manero clutch his pearls, he’s turned Reynolds into something between cartoon villain and tragic antihero. It’s the kind of performance that reminds you why we still go to the movies.
“Motor City” isn’t trying to reinvent cinema – it’s giving it a fresh coat of paint and taking it for a joy ride. Sure, there are plot holes big enough to park a Dodge Charger in, but in this neon-soaked love letter to ’70s excess, they feel almost intentional. Like the crackles in your favorite vinyl record, they add character rather than detract from it.
What we’ve got here is pure, uncut entertainment – a high-octane reminder that sometimes the best stories don’t need words to pack a punch. Just give us a muscle car, a wronged man, and a soundtrack that makes your pulse race faster than a Detroit V8. In an age of CGI overload and chatty exposition, “Motor City” proves that silence, when wielded like a weapon, can speak volumes.
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