Blazing Humvees, SMALL-town banks stuck-up: this dark, dyspeptic but grimly compelling PTSD drama charts a litany of decisions. Really bad ones, mostly. Decisions that take its title character, Iraq War vet Cherry (Tom Holland), from youthful promise to something altogether darker.
It’s directed – a lot – by Avengers: Endgame siblings Joe and Anthony Russo. The duo bring five billion dollars of filmmaking cachet to the table and go all-out with all the techniques at their disposal to dig into an anguished American underbelly a world away from Stark Towers.
Tom Holland – their one-time Spider-man – shows again what a charismatic young actor he is. Newcomer Ciara Bravo (Wayne) also catches the eye as Emily, his long-standing/suffering girlfriend. Together, they offer a brittle portrayal of dying innocence that half brings to mind Jon Voight in Midnight Cowboy.
Cherry is adapted from a memoir from ex-army medic Nico Walker and channels those literary roots into a series of chapter headings (nothing spells self-conscious epic like chapter headings). Its vision of America is a lucid dream – or waking nightmare – where aerial shoots capture its characters scurrying through streets that might be deserted or just permanently abandoned.
Cherry’s heists unfold in an realm of surreal indifference rather than cortisol-inducing panic – wads of notes are dismissively handed over to this clammy-skinned robber clad in a variety of rubbish disguises. Amusingly – and this movie is not big on jokes – one teller refuses to hand over more than a measly bundle. ‘She’s a fanatic,’ notes Cherry.
Cherry does have elements of satire but then, it has elements of everything: tragedy, war film, crime thriller, social drama, deconstructed love story – all presented in a welter of stylistic tics.
For every virtuoso transition, like when Cherry runs into the smoke of battle and emerges out of the dry ice of a gym homecoming ceremony, there’s a show-offy bit with a load of unnecessary slo-mo and a fancy camera move. (The music cues are on the money throughout, though, with the Russos’ crate-digging yielding a ’70s-tinged mix of Van Morrison, Mountain and Grand Funk Railroad.)
But when it all gels, Cherry offers a timely portrait of a country medicating itself to mask traumas it hasn’t begun to process, as well as a poignant snapshot of youth circling the drain. It’s a tough watch, but it envelopes you like a miasma.
