Hard rock hotties

In a perfect example of life imitating art, The Runaways, director Floria Sigismondi's recounting of the formative days of the flash in the pan that was the all-girl music group of the same name, is basically a facsimile of the band portrayed: A superficial commercial vehicle packaged to maximize the salability of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll.

The teen-star duo of Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning plays rockers Joan Jett and Cherie Currie, respectively. The young actresses clearly reveled in the opportunity to kill their young and innocent images by playing drug-addled, promiscuous aspiring musicians. Do they pull it off? They do, at least insofar as wanton displays of self-destructive chaos and carnality are concerned. The film doesn't offer much else. The characters are cut from the media mystique that propelled their real-life counterparts, and this is all well and good, but the real human drama that underscored the teenaged rockers' surge toward stardom is sidestepped entirely.

The tale picks up with the girls in the year 1975, just as Cherie is getting her first period and Joan cashes in her piggy bank for a masculine Elvis-meets-biker ensemble at a local clothing store. The pair soon come under the sway of promoter Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon), who introduces them and helps them connect with fellow band mates Sandy West (Stella Maeve) and Lita Ford (Scout Taylor-Compton). The band's original bassist, Jackie Fox, is not portrayed, but rather re-imagined as a character named Robin (played by Alia Shawkat).

At least part of the blame for the film's wholly unsatisfying effect is the fact that the clear protagonist is Cherie, a marginally talented fame-whore who burned out before the band's premature breakup in 1979 and never produced anything of particular artistic merit again. A much more interesting point of view would have been that of Joan, who came from similarly desperate circumstances but went on to become one of the most popular and long-lasting female guitar heroes in the annals of popular music.

Instead, the storyline focuses on the tawdry tale of a trashy sexpot who catapults to fame on the strength of luck, coincidence and her willingness to exploit her sexuality in the cause of good press. Joan is on hand, to be sure, but Stewart's admirable (if understated) turn as the fabled rock star is sidelined in favor of Fanning's heavy-handed attempt at a dissociative party girl and drug addict who ended her days as a chainsaw artist somewhere in the San Fernando Valley.     

The remaining performances in the film are so much window dressing. The fans, band mates, family members and industry ghouls are one-dimensional clichés. Shannon is to be forgiven for faithfully recreating a smarmy promoter who by all accounts showed zero interest in his wards' well-being and systematically abused and manipulated them in the interest of turning a greasy buck.

Sigismondi's direction is uninspired, even by music video standards. The flashy jump cuts and overly stylized montage sequences seem to be designed, more than anything else, to distract the audience from the fact that two well-known actresses are impersonating larger-than-life personalities with whom they bear little resemblance. These effects are indeed distracting, but they fail to heighten the characters' appeal or encourage the viewer to empathize or identify with their plight in any way.

The odd fan of the band would be much better served by perusing archival footage of the genuine article. In fact, the few truly engaging moments amount to blurry footage of the fictive band lip-syncing to live recordings of the group during their tour of Japan. Joan Jett must be spinning in her leathers at the prospect of a new generation of potential fans coming to her music through such a limp recreation of what, for whatever it's worth, was an exciting watershed moment in the history of women in rock 'n' roll.

James Walling can be reached at
jwalling@praguepost.com