There should be a warning on this film’s tin: if you’re on antidepressants, of a sensitive disposition, considering suicide, or just having a bad day, STEER WELL CLEAR. The plot centres on an alcoholic war veteran Frank (Eddie Marsan), who meets Lynette (Candese Reid), a homeless teen with a feisty attitude, but (surprise, surprise) hidden depths and a sensitive soul. Before you can put the ‘kitsch’ in ‘kitchen sink realism’, Frank’s already begun his fatherly caring for Lynette whilst her violent boyfriend takes advantage of him and turns his house into a crack den of extremely seedy proportions. All fun and games so far!
Junkhearts is like if Mike Leigh had riotous, relentless meth-fuelled sex with one of his film-studies undergrads. To say I found the whole ninety minutes uncomfortable is a wild underestimation. The movie is littered with shock-tactic imagery, descending into all kinds of unpleasantness which every resident living on a council estate must endure according to the British film industry. There’s also an awkward subplot that never really justifies its own existence; again, it’s a succession of adultery, inept motherhood and drug abuse. By the time the two narratives converge, you’ve either guessed how they connect, lost all interest, or have left the cinema to throw yourself under a train. Even the presence of indie film darling Eddie Marsan cannot lift this glumfest above a half-star rating.
If there was something good about Junkhearts, trying to remember it is like trying to remember the eye colour of someone who killed your entire family. Consider your mental well-being warned.
1/2 a star.
