On the Road movie review (2017) | Little White Lies

On the Road

05 Oct 2017 / Released: 06 Oct 2017

A group of people standing outside a corner shop with a red and black sign.
A group of people standing outside a corner shop with a red and black sign.
2

Anticipation.

A feature-length trawl across Great Britain with a middling indie band.

2

Enjoyment.

Attempts something a little different, but runs out of steam very quickly.

1

In Retrospect.

The second hour is unbearably, almost comically dull.

Michael Win­ter­bot­tom attempts to engi­neer a new kind of con­cert movie. The results are pure tedium.

British direc­tor Michael Win­ter­bot­tom is occa­sion­al­ly referred to as an anti-auteur in that he has no recur­ring styl­is­tic tics and there are no sub­ject areas towards which he repeat­ed­ly grav­i­tates. On the Road marks his attempt to hit refresh on the time-hon­oured con­cert movie, fus­ing togeth­er an impro­vised romance between two actors (play­ing a road­ie and a PR) and doc­u­men­tary tour footage of North Lon­don indie quar­tet, Wolf Alice.

Usu­al­ly, it’s his small­er, light­ly exper­i­men­tal films which are his most sat­is­fy­ing – the time-lapse fam­i­ly saga of 2012’s Every­day, his lop­sided lit­er­ary adap­ta­tion A Cock and Bull Sto­ry, or the blokey bants of The Trip and its sequels. This one, how­ev­er, feels DOA. On a very basic lev­el, nei­ther the fic­tion­al nor real char­ac­ters are even close to being inter­est­ing. The wisp of a sto­ry is ham­mered out over two hours which become incre­men­tal­ly more excruciating.

At 30 min­utes, you could see this work­ing as an inno­v­a­tive press kit or DVD extra. But as it stands, you’re left to watch what feels like the same ten minute seg­ment repeat­ed over and over and over. On the evi­dence of the throngs of hyper­ven­ti­lat­ing tee­nie-bop­pers who chant along to every lyric from the front row,Wolf Alice cer­tain­ly have their super­fans. But if you don’t care for their chug­ging brand of emo-inflect­ed pop rock, then this is going to make for some form of sus­tained audio torture.

Else­where, we have Leah Har­vey and James McAr­dle flash­ing ten­ta­tive glances at one anoth­er, and their soft rap­port devel­ops into icky (and very dull) love pat­ter and, even­tu­al­ly, grind­ing hotel sex. When the tour winds to a close, it’s clear that you’re sup­posed to feel the pangs of heart­break as every­one heads off to brighter climes. Frankly, we were over the moon to be rid of these wet dullards. Props to Win­ter­bot­tom for at least try­ing some­thing new, but this one fails on just about every level.

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