corey’s review published on Letterboxd:
a film with bursts of excellency that fight for their lives to break through the glossy exterior, but are masked and suppressed by incessant insistence to homage in the facade of imagery, replication, and indistinct filmmaking from someone whose report card is actually phenomenal—spare this. Last Night in Soho banks on its style and the lead performances that come with it, all of which are great in their own right, and offer something enchanting to what should have been spellbound a little finer to horror. as with much of the genre’s entries in common modernity, the element of terror lives and dies on the surface, lacking the filth and grit that golden eras of the past so powerfully reveled and excelled in—problem is that here, none of this exists, despite it hopelessly needing to, by way of clear hints of influence from the flair of giallo, and the obvious grime of misogyny to drive and inspire bleak repulsion. the film allows these aspects to breathe momentarily in its climax, but not before predictability, undistinguishable direction, a barrage of cliches and tropes, and shaky delivery of a story and its world that both remain inconsequential—the thrill of the mirror is shattered into pieces that do not fit into the chosen arc(s) of deployment, with a clash of bland against the fantastic costume, set, and screen-composition design that Anya and Thomasin flaunt and flow with so, so well. instead, its allegories for the dangers of nostalgia and unraveling mental health are dead-ended by its hand-holding exposition and a flashback sequence that shows us a glimpse of what maybe could have been a decent film, but only in souring disappointment.