Logan Lucky

Directed By: Steven SoderberghWritten By: Rebecca BluntStarring: Channing Tatum, Adam Driver, Daniel Craig, Riley Keough, Seth MacFarlane

There are many films that come to mind when watching the allegedly retiring Steven Soderbergh’s latest Logan Lucky. It’s a film borne out of a long line of heist movies and caper flicks—The Sting is one, The Italian Job another, The Hot Rock too— none begging for comparison more so however than the Ocean’s trilogy, a series which heralds from Soderbergh’s own back-catalogue. One might in fact describe Logan Lucky as a redneck Ocean’s 11, lensed through a more subdued personality, one that dials down the freneticism of Soderbergh’s star studded affair from 16 years prior yet maintains that same happy-go-lucky charm and infectious high-spirit. There’s no personal score to be settled this time around, nor is there a chief antagonist, but the machinations of the heist are much the same, as is the basic selling point of a cast bloated with big name stars. Like Ocean’s 11 there is even a British bomb expert on deck, however Daniel Craig’s Britishness in Logan Lucky is strictly off-camera, onscreen he’s tasked with a syrupy Southern accent, whilst Ocean’s resident pyrotechnic was a Missourian donning a syrupy British accent in Don Cheadle. Seth MacFarlane unadvisedly takes Brit duties in Logan.

The unravelling of the plot is nothing new then. Soderbegh’s key alteration is relocating the heist from the bustling, neon lit stage of Las Vegas to the earthier, more humble surrounds of West Virgina and North Carolina, dealing in stereotypes and romance equally in his depiction of redneck America. Hardly the suit wearing, aristocratic masterminds of heist films prior, these characters toss toilet seats instead of quoits, bob for lobster claws instead of apples, offer their own take on the English language (“All the Twitters, I know ‘em” one character exclaims), and are as filled with pride for their nation as they are for NASCAR. But Soderbergh, himself a Georgian, isn’t condescending towards his characters. Rather, he has great affection for them, going to lengths to exhibit the intelligence that lay within people who are so often in movies dismissed as simpletons.

Case in point are the Logan brothers, Jimmy and Clyde, written off as a pair of jinxed, fail-prone dingbats; “you Logans must be as simple minded as people say” remarks Craig’s explosives expert, aptly named Joe Bang, as he sits upon the wrong side of a prison bench. “People say that?” replies Clyde. As the brothers proceed to demonstrate, there is much more to them than meets the eye.

Jimmy (played by Channing Tatum) is a divorced father of one. He’s close with his young daughter Sadie (Farrah Mackenzie), despite Sadie’s living with her mother Bobbie Jo (Katie Holmes). The film’s opening is a quiet yet radiant portrait of the father-daughter tandem. Jimmy lectures Sadie on John Denver’s Take Me Home, Country Roads (Denver has been well represented in film this year, from Free Fire to Alien: Resurrection, however this marks the first time his anthems have been used more out of sincerity than juxtaposition) whilst Sadie retrieves various wrenches and screw drivers for her Daddy as he tinkers under the bonnet of a car. They discuss Sadie’s upcoming beauty pageant, they muck around as Sadie flexes her non-existent muscles and Jimmy evades her attempts for a high five. There is an earnest affection there, both between the characters, and Soderbergh in his viewing of them, one which persists even as the film transfigures into an increasingly wild, pulpy, comedy caper.

Problems arise firstly when Bobbie Jo informs Jimmy that she’ll be moving interstate with their daughter, and secondly when Jimmy, a blue-collar labourer working underground to patch up sink holes beneath the Charlotte Motor Speedway, is laid off due to a limp he incurred back in his football days. Clyde (Adam Driver) has his own injuries, a veteran who lost a hand during a tour of Iraq—post military tour Clyde tends bar.

Given his situation, Jimmy could do with some extra money, and given his knowledge of the Charlotte Motor Speedway (which in a manner of weeks will be hosting its biggest annual event, the Coca-Cola 600), the opportunity to gain such has just presented itself. Clyde, after spotting a robbery “to-do list” on Jimmy’s fridge, and possibly sensing a chance to redeem the too often mocked Logan name, is the first to jump on board, followed by their sister Mellie (Riley Keough).

The “in-car-cer-a-ted” Joe Bang is next, Daniel Craig giddily turning his stiff upper lip propensity on its ear. Joe Bang might have been plucked from a Coen brothers film, he has albino like blonde hair, is strewn with tattoos, campy and eccentric by equal measure, dons a black and white striped prison costume (just to up the cartoonishness), and all the while is a safecracking, bomb making mastermind. Joe Bang enlists the help of his own seemingly dim-witted brothers, Sam and Fish (Brian Gleeson and Jack Quaid respectively) before the heist is fully set in motion. An all-around family affair.

Little of the heist itself will be revealed here—as is so often the case with these films, the question of whether the crime will be successful is second to the crime itself. Suffice to say it’s elaborate, among its facets: explosives, gummy bears, prison breaks, cockroaches, nail polish, cake, breaking back into prison, vacuums, prosthetic limbs, fires, riots, trash, cash and more.

So much of the film’s charm and quietly indomitable spirit hinges on its performers. These anti-heroes make for fun company. Not since Ethan Hawke and Philip Seymour Hoffman in Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead have two onscreen brothers beared as little resemblance as Tatum and Driver do here, yet like that altogether more morbid heist film, the two performers trump that discrepancy with sheer chemistry. Neither is particularly showy, Tatum drawing primarily from an intuitive warmth and understated resolve, whilst Driver, more passive, leans on his droopy features and mastery of stoicism to achieve an oddly irresistible comic presence. The two performances click together like puzzle pieces.

Nor, since Sean Connery in The Untouchables, has a 007 so effectively stripped themselves of the James Bond baggage in their performance as Craig (typically reliable) does here. Craig is offered the chance to steal the show via the batty Joe Bang, relishes the opportunity to do so, and then seizes it. Watching Craig as he contorts the English language—“I’m about to get nekkid”, improvise explosives out of candy and salt substitutes, and exercise his commanding-as-ever physical presence, one is reminded of his mercuriality, of his chops as a character actor. Bang is ultimately the film’s ace in the hole, it’s comedic stalwart who with him ushers in an air of unpredictability to an otherwise measured story.

Rebecca Blunt’s screenplay (the mysterious Rebecca Blunt, no one can confirm her existence and is likely a pseudonym for Soderbegh) provides all the necessary shifts and twists in the heist without exceeding the realms of plausibility. This isn’t a caper film preoccupied with swerving the viewer as much as it is focused on demonstrating a creative pragmatism. Particularly clever is the way Blunt’s screenplay assembles and arranges the pieces underneath our noses, allowing them to imperceptibly take shape before us. It’s that emergence of the final picture that is the central joy to a film of this genre– Logan Lucky assembles that picture with a relative seamlessness, and in the process surprises us without contrivance.

What the story never achieves is an emotional payoff worthy of its characters. For all its hijinx, Logan Lucky seems to end on a note of anticlimax, politely petering to its end credits, perhaps a symptom of its laid-back Southern demeanour. There are certain structural issues, exasperated by Soderbergh’s leisurely, stop-start pacing ; the story hits its peak and then, oddly, insists on continuing for a significant time more, never fully regathering its momentum. Hilary Swank’s hardboiled FBI agent doesn’t even enter the fray until the narrative is in its down-swing, leaving things feeling somewhat incomplete, as do the seemingly cobbled inclusions of the distinguished likes of Katherine Waterston and Sebastian Stan.

Perhaps this saga isn’t complete. Soderbegh’s last original heist film, as noted, spawned 2 sequels— Logan Lucky seems to leave the door open for such a future. There may be no greater testament to the film than to say that in this age of sequels and elongated series, its characters are so involving that a revisitation might have merit. Logan Lucky is in its own, unspectacular way, a great entertainment— an engaging, good-natured redneck romp that mightn’t end with a Bang, but which crackles nicely along the way. They say it’s best to retire with reserves still in the tank. If this is indeed the end, Steven Soderbergh can take comfort in the fact that his storytelling seems far from exhausted.

Rating:

3.25/4