AMERICAN HONEY (B+) - This tale of a crew of those youngsters who sell magazines door-to-door is bursting with youthful energy and dynamic camerawork from director Andrea Arnold, one of the most powerful filmmakers around. Unfortunately, this traipse through the underbelly of the heartland too often feels off-key and bloated, clocking in at an epic length of two hours and 42 minutes.
Arnold crept onto the scene with the gritty thriller "Red Road" in 2007 and then splashed her teen cri de coeur, "Fish Tank," in 2010. Like those two films, "American Honey" is claustrophobic but somehow liberating and hopeful, jangled yet life-affirming. And she is in love with her cast of characters, mainly the yearning heroine. Here, Star (newcomer Sasha Lane) escapes from domestic baby-sitting hell and falls in with this wild pack of young adults, a conglomeration of unglamorous stragglers, as they hustle and scam under the ominous gaze of their boss, Krystal (Riley Keough).
Star immediately connects with the older Jake (Shia LaBeouf), a brooding, menacing deputy to Krystal, whose needs he obediently serves. Jake seduces Star, as well, in the first of several incredibly carnal (though not graphic) sex scenes. You get the feeling early on that he gets his pick of the newbies.
But Keough (the granddaughter of Elvis Presley) is the true star here. Krystal is a rowdy gal and a stern taskmaster, playing mind games with her crew, more than once threatening to abandon one of them in the middle of nowhere. She is menacing, maternal, vindictive and sexy. In an unforgettable scene, Krystal, knowing that Star is after Jake, invites Star to her motel room for a mini-lecture; Jake eventually emerges from the bathroom and subserviently kneels behind Krystal and slathers suntan oil on her legs as she stands, goddess-like, in a Confederate-flag bikini, glaring at Star. Take that, Tarantino.
The beauty of Arnold's film is its panoramic exploration of middle America, from manicured lawns and pristine mansions to trashed trailers where strung-out mothers leave kids to fend for themselves. There is an Emersonian exuberance that infuses this gang as they celebrate the good, the bad, and the ugly of the American experiment. (See also, Confederate-flag bikini, supra.) Even Willy Loman's spirit hovers over the proceedings as, out in the field, there's a fine line between "sales associates" and prostitutes, the kids scrapping to make their nut.
Arnold's hand-held camera provides a jagged documentary feel to the storytelling. As Star and Jake roll lustily in a field of grass, the camera pries curiously, lapsing in and out of focus as it jockeys for position to find an intimate angle, a third partner thirsting for intimacy along with them. If only she didn't feel the need to repeat herself. As the camera frequently stares out of the kids' van as it barrels along, soaking in the passing sights, you can feel the riders' ache for a connection, like hobos on the rails, and you can sense a hidden, forgotten collection of souls along the countryside living out their ordinary lives.
Arnold tosses in images seemingly at random, and you wish an editor had tightened this up. Some images are unforgettable, as when an oil field flare provides a spooky amber glow to an impersonal handjob in a pickup truck. But we get a few too many interstitial nature shots, including one unsubtle quickie of a pair of beautiful butterflies mating. Lots of butterflies and moths and insects, even a turtle, skittering about the earth, yearning to breathe free ... like these unformed young adults.
Lane does a fine brood as Star, a mixture of frustration, heartache and unfocused ambition. She flaunts her tame sexuality when she falls in with a trio of creepy cowboys who invite her to their mansion, and her maternal instinct returns when she knocks on the door of those dirty, neglected children. Standing up in the passenger seat of a convertible cruising the open road, she shouts, "I feel like I'm fucking America!" LaBeouf is as intense as he's ever been, but he's working at a different pitch than the others, as if in a competition (not unlike Joaquin Phoenix in "The Master"). Both are blown away by Keough, who offers yet a third tone. Arnold never finds a way to knit them all together, and just when she has a chance to fall into a rhythm, we're back to the nature shots or another rave with the wolfpack as they burn off energy.
Arnold has created an epic worth exploring. But like Jeff Nichols in 2016, she came off as an emerging auteur in need of some direction herself.
BONUS TRACKS
Rap and hip-hop propel this film. (With ditties by the likes of Bonnie "Prince" Billy and Mazzy Star interspersed.) The crew members conduct sing-alongs in the van and adrenaline-fueled rave-ups in parking lots. As the girls pull up to some oil fields in slinky short dresses to lure the workers, Rihanna (with Calvin Harris) sets off an impromptu dance party:
A sweet scene between Star and a truck driver is scored to a corny recent song from Bruce Springsteen, "Dream, Baby, Dream":
And this dusty over the end credits, Razzy's "I Hate Hate":
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