Striking an original note in a sequel is tough. Especially if you’re not returning to the character that made the idea buzz in the first place. But Smile 2 overcomes every obstacle in spades and a quite brilliant climax sets up part three.
That it does so with such style is quite unnerving. The confidence of the direction by Parker Finn, who helmed the first episode, takes your breath away. Because pretty much this whole thing relies on star Naomi Scott whose movie experience is limited to the lightweight Jasmine in Aladdin (2019) and a flaccid Charlie’s Angels reboot (2019). Talk about rebirth. A more experienced actress would not have gone full-on from the outset. But without overacting, Scott does a superb job of a woman on the edge.
There’s a heck of a lot at stake. A record company’s millions for a start, and a helicopter mamma (Rosemarie DeWitt) only too conscious that failure to turn in a knockout performance on her upcoming tour will spell the end of daughter Skye’s (Naomi Scott) career.
We’ve already had plenty real-life evidence of pop star burn-out and Skye’s on the precipice. Not only is she ridden with guilt for causing the death of her boyfriend in a car accident, but she’s put far too much up her nose, and although clean now, with the pressure mounting there’s every chance she’ll crumble. She didn’t come out of the accident physically free, either, some awful long scars mar her body, and such injuries impede her ability to carry out the dancing that’s a requirement with every chanteuse these days. You can’t just sidle up to a mic like Ella Fitzgerald and scarcely move a muscle for two hours.
But when strange things start happening she’s headed for a nervous breakdown.
One of the problems with the horror overload we’ve had in the past few years is finding original ways for people to die. So if you’re going to run out into a street and not look where you’re going and be mown down by a vehicle, it’s no longer enough to expect sudden impact to carry the visceral weight. So here, we follow a trail of blood. Not merely a trail, the kind with aesthetically pleasing drops here and there, but what looks like a flood, as if someone had cleaned the road with blood. And along the way we see innards and the few remaining bits of a mangled body.
This piece is sometimes so gory I had to avert my eyes. And if it had just been full-on gory it wouldn’t have worked. But it’s full-on subtle as well. What disturbs Skye most turns out to be very disturbing.
She hears glass break. Her water bottle is in pieces on the floor, though it wasn’t teetering on a coffee table, and she’s alone in the apartment. She begins to freak out but then screws on her sensible head and goes to the cupboard to fetch a brush. Before she can clean up the mess, she realises there’s no breakage, no spilled water.
Someone is messing with her head. But you’d be a bit on edge if you’d just watched old buddy Lewis (Lukas Gage) commit suicide in front of you by beating his brains in with a metal weight. You can’t report the incident to the police because he’s a junkie and your visit would be interpreted as having gone over to snort some coke. So now you’re terrified you’ve left unusual evidence of your presence. So now you start googling – can the police detect your DNA from your vomit?.
There’s a terrific sequence where she’s invited to address pop hopefuls and the Teleprompter goes awry and she starts babbling on to a shocked hush about the pitfalls of the business. Her smile is lopsided because she smeared her lipstick trying to bat away a fly. Shame she didn’t give her talk the full works because music wannabes these days haven’t spent years on a tour apprenticeship, trundling around from town to town in a clapped-out old van, gigging their lives away and so, if they strike lucky, well acquainted with the grind of the road. Rather than plucked out of nowhere and thrown into an unforgiving industry.
Another great scene has her confronted by the sometimes freaky or over-friendly fans in a meet-and-greet. And those smiles. Step away now, Mr Joker, your trademark has been stolen. And, as I said, in considerable style, plenty inventive ways here where it goes beyond creepy and topples into threatening.
And I don’t know who invented what I think is going to be a future horror trope. Skye has a way of scuttling back like a scalded cat, with her feet hammering the ground, that makes you jump every time.
Only gradually does she come to understand that she’s been infected with a parasitical demon. The way to get rid of it? Die!
A wee bit heavy on the gore but otherwise a more than accomplished sequel. Writer-director Parker Finn in top form. Naomi Scott is mesmerising. She pretty much starts at 10 and then stretches up ways beyond 11. Plus she can actually sing.
Bring on Part III.
The Magnificent 60s 