Peaking early can be a terrible curse.
Back in the early uh-ohs, Vince lived large as the front man of an über-famous teenage boy band, Stereo Dream.
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| Vince (Ed Skrein, left) handles the melody on his portable keyboard, while Stevie (Leo Long) joyfully maintains a steady beat on a "drum set" made of found objects. |
Flash-forward to today, which finds Vince (Ed Skrein) scrambling for a living in the streets of Peckham, dragging his music kit behind him on a modified ironing board (a suitably pathetic visual touch). And to rub salt in the wound, former band mate Austin (Eoin Macken) did have the artistic chops for a wildly successful solo career: a constant reminder of the life Vince desperately wishes he could have.
Then, one day, Vince’s busking efforts are interrupted — nay, complemented — by a shy young man beating his drumsticks in time to the music. Vince soon learns that this is Stevie (Leo Long), a mildly autistic lad carefully monitored by his protective mother, Amber (Eleanor Matsuura).
Vince immediately (rashly?) believes that Stevie might be the “secret sauce” that could turn them into a successful two-man act. Amber, mindful of her son’s inability to handle being the center of attention, has her doubts.
Matters aren’t helped by the fact that the disheveled Vince has the diplomatic subtlety of a bull in a china shop.
Director/co-writer Eddie Sternberg’s sweet little film, expanded from his 17-minute 2015 short subject of the same title, offers no surprises; the story, co-written with Zak Klein, is fairly predictable (albeit with a poignant third-act twist).
That said, the tone and approach are as earnest as all three lead actors; it’s also nice to see a story that depicts autism with respect and compassion. Credit for this, in great part, goes to Long: neurodivergent in real life, and both an accomplished drummer and quietly persuasive actor.
The drama emerges from the credibly endearing manner in which both Vince and Stevie struggle to become better versions of themselves.
Vince initially shadows Stevie by joining a therapeutic drumming circle led by Dia (Kurt Egyiawan), whose regular sessions bring solace to a dozen “patients” who have similar difficulties navigating the discordant harshness of modern life. Egyiawan is marvelous in this role, as Dia instinctively employs music as a gateway that allows his students to open up and express themselves.
The same is true of Vince, who has plenty of his own issues. Skrein makes him a jangled bundle of passion, anxiety, repressed jealousy and impatience. As introduced, in the first act, he’s far more troubled than Stevie, in terms of making peace with the hand Fate has dealt him. We like and sympathize with Vince, but it’s clear that he’s his own worst enemy.
He’s also in serious danger of overwhelming and alienating Stevie, but — this is crucial — Vince realizes this, and does his best to compensate. (Not always successfully, but hey: Credit for trying.)
Long’s Stevie is the polar opposite: timid, withdrawn and generally unable to meet another person’s gaze. Yet he, too, recognizes that he wants — needs — to step beyond the comfort zone of drumming in secret, behind the closed door of his bedroom; or clandestinely, extracting a beat from a bit of real-world cacophony that he recognizes is melody.
Matsuura is equally credible as a protective mother lion who nonetheless understands that — unlikely as it seems — Vince, and what he offers, could be a blessing to her son. Unfortunately, Vince’s goals are far more ambitious than fronting a successful busking act; he wants a club gig, studio time and anything else that could help claw his way back to the top.
And all of that, Amber fears, is far more than Stevie could handle.
Sternberg and Klein deftly sketch the challenges to Vince’s ambitions: the competition from numerous other buskers also hoping to make enough for the next meal; the grinding humiliation of trying to persuade club owners for a booking; the danger of accepting too little, if an offer does surface; and, deep down, Vince’s fear — which Skrein persuasively conveys — that maybe he really isn’t good enough.
Worse yet are the encounters with Austin, who — despite surface bonhomie — doesn’t really seem willing to help in any tangible manner. Skrein and Macken are first-rate during these awkward moments, as we squirm in our seats. (We’re left to wonder if perhaps Austin did help, back in the day, but now perceives Vince as a lost cause … and isn’t willing to be that candid.)
Neil Stuke is memorably oily and condescending as Austin’s manager, Dennis, who also handled Stereo Dream, back in the day.
Although gently poignant, and unexpectedly amusing in spots, this film doesn’t have the emotional resonance of 2007’s Once, despite being set in the same world. (That earlier film also boasted far superior songs.)
Even so, I Used to Be Famous has its heart in the right place, and it leaves us feeling happy. Which is really all that matters.
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