Two stars. Rated R, for profanity, drug content, violence, sexual candor and brief nudity
By Derrick Bang
The point of this film — the reason for its existence — eludes me.
The press notes proclaim it a “moving story” of a blue-collar kid who “enters into a Faustian bargain” and ultimately is “manipulated by the very system meant to protect him” and “betrayed by the institutional injustice and corruption that defined Detroit, the home they loved.”
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| The hook is planted: Ricky (Richie Merritt, left), not wanting his father to be arrested, reluctantly agrees to a dangerous undercover scheme proposed by FBI agents Snyder (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and Byrd (Rory Cochrane). |
Like, wow. Lay it on a bit thicker, could you?
Makes me wonder if these folks watched their own film.
At no time can the narrative in White Boy Rick be considered “moving” to any degree, nor is there room for an ounce of sympathy for any of these individuals. It’s impossible to chart a fall from grace, when somebody hasn’t any to begin with.
Nobody in director Yann Demange’s film is likable: not for a nanosecond. Nor are they interesting/captivating in the manner of characters in a Martin Scorsese crime film. These are just mopes, and spending 110 minutes with this gaggle of amoral scumbags and opportunists is a bewildering waste of time.
We reach the conclusion and wonder, okay … to what purpose?
Demange’s filmmaking skills are acceptable, and several performances are noteworthy. Screenwriters Andy Weiss, Logan Miller and Noah Miller adhere respectably to the real-world facts, and Tat Radcliffe’s grainy, gritty cinematography gives this saga the feel of a documentary; there’s a sense that these events are happening in real time, and we’re granted access as invisible observers.
An argument can be made that law enforcement officials shouldn’t take advantage of ingenuous minors, but Ricky Wershe Jr. was hardly a poster child for exploited innocence. He was a seasoned delinquent without a trace of conscience long before the FBI came calling; blame for that undoubtedly falls on the shoulders of his low-life father, who cheerfully schooled his son in a life of crime.
We meet 14-year-old Ricky (Richie Merritt) as he helps his father (Matthew McConaughey) out-hustle a bent dealer at a Detroit gun show. It’s immediately apparent that Rick Sr. is a blue-sky dreamer who flits from one unlikely get-rich-quick scheme to another; his current “occupation” involves selling illegally enhanced AK-47s to local thugs.
Ricky, his older sister Dawn (Bel Powley) and their father eke out a lower middle-class existence in a predominantly African-American eastside neighborhood, roughly seven miles from downtown Detroit. Ricky’s grandparents — Ray (Bruce Dern) and Verna (Piper Laurie) — live across the street, grimly hanging onto their memories of a time when the area was booming, and filled with Chrysler employees and their families.
Dawn, already a crack addict, doesn’t hang around long; she splits with a deadbeat boyfriend (although she’ll later resurface). Powley’s performance is shrill, paralyzingly intense and haunting: Dawn is a feral animal just this side of human, who softens only in the presence of her younger brother.
Ricky’s best friend is Rudell “Boo” Curry (RJ Cyler), whose older brothers — Leo “Big Man” Curry (YG) and Johnny “Li’l Man” Curry (Jonathan Majors) — control the local drug operation. They’re impressed by Ricky’s moxie, and grant him access to their world; the subsequent nickname — “White Boy Rick” — becomes ubiquitous.
Ricky barely has time to savor the initial rush, when he’s approached by FBI agents Snyder (Jennifer Jason Leigh) and Byrd (Rory Cochrane), along with narcotics cop Jackson (Brian Tyree Henry). They pressure Ricky into helping them track the local drug trade, both as an informant and a “controlled purchaser” (for a percentage).
Their leverage is the threat to arrest his father for illegal gun sales. Unwilling, but feeling he has no choice, Ricky agrees. And thus the bargain is sealed.
(These three are fictitious composites of the various law enforcement individuals who subsequently wandered in and out of Ricky’s life. All other characters cited within this review are actual people.)
What happens next has been choreographed in countless (far better) dramas centered around illegal drugs: the sudden exposure to fancy nightclubs and exotic travel (in this case, Las Vegas); the proximity to danger; the inevitable taint of suspicion.
The surprise, if that’s the correct term, is that Ricky’s saga unfolds in two distinct chapters. His fealty to the FBI eventually concludes, but Ricky — and his father — are left no better than before. Ricky has “learned” one lesson: Life’s problems can be solved with money, and there’s only one way to make money quickly.
This film’s most difficult sell occurs when Ricky must persuade his father to overcome his unwillingness to deal drugs. (It’s hard to imagine Rick Sr., as portrayed here, putting up much of an argument.) Objections evaporate, and suddenly they have a crew cooking up crack in Ray and Verna’s kitchen. Which seems not to bother these old folks in the slightest.
Let’s see … matters are complicated further by Ricky’s ill-advised affair with Johnny “Li’l Man” Curry’s wife — Cathy Volsan-Curry (Taylour Paige), Detroit Mayor Coleman Young’s niece — while her husband is in jail; and the reappearance of Brenda (Kyanna Simone Simpson), a sweet former girlfriend from simpler times; and Ricky’s highly dangerous alliance with the Curry brothers’ drug wholesaler, Art Derrick (Eddie Marsan). Basically, there isn’t a mistake the kid doesn’t make.
The film’s intended soul is the bond between father and son, which — directly or otherwise — drives so many of the poor choices made along the way. McConaughey is fascinating in the same twitchy, hyper-energized mode that brought him an Academy Award for 2013’s Dallas Buyers Club; there’s a definitely sense that fast-talking Rick Sr., scruffy as he is, could charm a rattlesnake.
And there’s no doubt that McConaughey is persuasive during the man’s calmer, more reflective moments: when he’s willing to step back and acknowledge his role in the way his children’s lives have been ruined. But such candor remains brief; all too quickly, the opportunistic fire ignites in Rick’s eyes, and he’s once again seeking an edge … even when dealing with the FBI.
Unfortunately, Merritt’s handling of Ricky is — by far — the film’s weakest link. The first-time actor swans through the film in what seems a perpetual daze, his line readings carrying not the slightest trace of dramatic heft. He has only one expression, best described as sullen confusion. The one time Merritt tries to be earnest, when Ricky attempts to persuade his father to embrace the drug trade, the “intensity” is palpably false.
I’m forced to wonder if Demange tolerated such a non-performance as a means of characterizing Ricky as an overwhelmed naïf, buffeted by events and people he can’t understand, let alone control. If so, it’s a mistake, because it merely enhances this film’s failure to connect with its own narrative.
White Boy Rick doesn’t satisfy on any level. Concluding text blocks that attempt to justify the “unfairness” of Ricky’s eventual prison sentence fall equally flat; at no time has he been portrayed as somebody worthy of redemption.
And so the question remains: Why does this film exist?
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