The Runaways
Late in The Runaways, Michael Shannon’s cold-blooded Svengali Kim Fowley dismisses the seminal ’70s all-girl punk band of the title as nothing more than a failed conceptual project. Those are the bitter words of a star-maker cavalierly tossed aside by his own creation, but there’s an element of truth to them as well. Like the Sex Pistols, The Runaways combined raw punk anarchy and cynical commercial calculation. They were prefabricated yet authentic, the product of estrogen-fueled rage and a sleazy music-industry lifer intent on exploiting ripe teenage sexuality. There is a fascinating film to be made about Fowley’s slick commoditization of adolescent rebellion, but in her numbingly familiar feature-length debut, writer-director Floria Sigismondi apparently isn’t interested in Fowley so much as she is in giving rock ’n’ roll movie conventions a distaff spin.