Stewart’s refined cordiality is repurposed for menace.
Scott Green/A24 via AP
Your feedback is important to us!
We invite all our readers to share with us their views and comments about this article.
Disclaimer: Comments submitted by third parties on this site are the sole responsibility of the individual(s) whose content is submitted. The Daily Star accepts no responsibility for the content of comment(s), including, without limitation, any error, omission or inaccuracy therein. Please note that your email address will NOT appear on the site.
Alert: If you are facing problems with posting comments, please note that you must verify your email with Disqus prior to posting a comment. follow this link to make sure your account meets the requirements. (http://bit.ly/vDisqus)
That's the advice given to The Ain't Rights when the punk band's dirt-broke, gas-siphoning tour lands a last-minute gig at an Oregon backwoods roadhouse. The tip from the spiky-haired 'zine reporter who's set up the show (David W. Thompson) isn't because the crowd will be expecting the band's nonexistent "hits," but because he knows the angriest, heaviest tunes will go down best. The band, a grimy group of Virginia punks (Anton Yelchin, Alia Shawkat, Joe Cole, and Callum Turner) limping across the country, shrug. The road movie that it started out to be veers abruptly into a siege film as the head Neo-Nazi (Patrick Stewart, using his refined cordiality for menace) sends waves of "true believers" into the roadhouse to dispatch the witnesses.
FOLLOW THIS ARTICLE