For my cat

Rating: 3/10 (21 December 2016)

You know those YouTube comments on the Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd videos which moan and groan about the death of modern music and this generation's cultural milieu? Dan Mulligan is of the same opinion, and I despise him for it. I despise his jaded, cynical ass and old-fashioned perspective, his belief that the only good music that can be found these days are people yelling themselves hoarse (or in this case, delicately whispering lyrics) and strumming an acoustic guitar in a dimly lit bar god knows where. Ruffalo may be a decent actor, but here he basically lets his stubble and clothing carry the persona, shaking and stumbling drunkenly from scene to scene (and if he isn't convincing enough, the camera shakes for him). To kickstart the mid-film montage of vigour and determination all he actually needs to do is dress up a bit, and the dishevelled man from the opening all but disappears. In one rare moment of clarity, he unleashes on Gretta for not fully understanding his predicament and past, and it does enough to momentarily lift the character from cliché. It's a fair statement too, cautioning not only her but also the audience to not make initial snap judgements of the situation (he's portrayed pretty much as the typical deadbeat estranged father). The film's best moment circles back to the opening, now armed with this knowledge, and re-evaluates Gretta's performance through Dan's lens, the room coming alive with imagined instruments provided the backing track and accompaniment. But for that one tirade the rest of these characterisations are filled with gaps. Gretta proclaims that you can tell a lot about something from their playlist, but the film discards anything else that makes up a person. When you relegate every fibre of your being and emotion to song, you end up like Glee. Don't end up like Glee. You can't simply sing your way out of every life challenge.
For all his rebellion and loathing of the modern music machine Dan also contradicts himself - minutes after they have met he is already trying to package Gretta up to sell with a "killer music video and look". In Begin Again, never has authenticity been so inauthentic. Carney's own Once was an indie masterpiece, made with pennies on the streets of Dublin. It had some cheesy moments, but also a strong emotional core led by two musicians who used their instruments and voices as buffers for the pain they went through day by day. This, in comparison, is full of A-listers, 'supermodels' by Carney's own admission, and celebrity cameos. A particularly funny and ironic moment comes when Gretta reminisces on the nostalgic, untouched past through her iPhone, back to a time when she was all lovey dovey with her boyfriend, pop superstar Adam Levine. Although Dave wears glasses and hoodies, he's fooling no one. As a boyfriend he's loving, loyal and true to his roots, until the pair arrive in the big apple and the city swallows him whole and spits out a cheating sell-out and jerk. Carney's image of the modern music label is an inflated caricature presented to serve his agenda; they not only produce music, but also specialise in corporate emotional meddling. The tag 'indie' is a diluted and meaningless term these days, but the film nevertheless strives for it through a vague definition of soul, authenticity and real emotion.
Here's the problem with Keira Knightley's Gretta; she's presented to us immediately as some lost musical soul swallowed up by the city, but simultaneously a chirpy, confident force of nature with the uncanny ability to mend the lives of those she encounters. The film believes in the power of music so much that a song can even double as a way to confess infidelity, in one unintentionally hilarious scene where the mystical powers and acute sensitivity of Gretta exposes Dave's affair. Along the way she also teaches the classy ways of British dress to the trashy American teenager, and somehow glues together the cracks of divorce and estranged fatherhood. Watching this I am reminding of Little Miss Sunshine, which was so disparaging of superficiality and excess, but overcompensated with a sickly sweet dilution of empty twee. Knightley plays the hollow character with toothy grins and a pixie- ish vulnerability, yet it's impossible to defend the 'stadium-popificiation' of Lost Stars when it is ironically the same cliché-ridden pop tune as any of the targets the film takes aim at. How can you have so little self-awareness to package the film with an Adam Levine single?
Who really wants to watch a film with a worldview like this anyway? Like Dan, it listens to a few tapes and chart-toppers and then hastily declares the death of music and artistry as we know it. It patronisingly sees a teenager's tank-top and shorts as a world- ending crisis and a sign of the moral degeneracy of today's youth. It posits that your musical talents are only legit if you are borderline homeless and resorting to busking on the street for coin. I've already scouted out Dan's next talented star - that little boy banging on the trash can with a stick is sorely even more authentic than acoustic Gretta. He's already a lot less pretty.