Poms (2019) - Movie Review

As someone who frequently watches and reviews all manner of films on this blog, the first question in response to most if not all of them is fairly straight-forward: Who was this made for? Whether it was made with my suburban early-20’s demographic in mind or otherwise, who is a given film meant to appeal to? More to the point, is it any good at doing the appealing? Today’s film is a relatively simple answer to that, the older demographic, but that question nonetheless persists because, frankly, I’m not even sure if the filmmakers themselves knew who they were aiming for.

The cast list here is basically a showing of respect to older female actors across generations, from relative newcomers like Jacki Weaver to the old guard like Pam Grier, right down to star/producer Diane Keaton, who has proven herself as the one leading the charge for this type of film. Unfortunately, that showing of respect deteriorates in record time when it sets in that this film’s approach to tone ends up robbing everyone involved of their dignity. Keaton especially, here playing a sardonic and mildly suicidal spinster who checks herself into a retirement home.

From the jarring moments of melancholy to the underlying ‘trying to ignore impending death by living the youth she never got’ vibe, this film’s set-up could’ve made for something enriching, something to add to the recent canon of aging ennui and staring in the face of one’s own mortality. However, the text may say ‘Leaving Las Vegas’ but the tone keeps screaming ‘Caddyshack’, and whatever drama or humour can be generated ends up falling through the massive gap between those two.

Not that there’s much of either to begin with. Between casual murder, attempts at gallows humour that the film at large is way too fluffy to do properly, not to mention a rape joke for literally no reason whatsoever, this film keeps trying to be darker than it’s willing to follow through with. On top of that, there’s a couple of shots fired concerning the state of sexual education in the U.S., which given the film’s shooting location of Georgia, a current hot button topic in the industry due to a certain piece of dumbfuckery that went into law a short while ago, is both ironic and yet the least of this film’s problems.

The most of them, honestly, isn’t even anything immediate. It isn’t the wonky attempts at comedy, the even wonkier attempts at being serious, the bad sitcom-level characterisation and camera work or even the complete car crash that is this film’s pace. No, it’s the fact that this film talks down to its intended demographic more times than not. No matter what pretence the filmmakers had at the start about empowering the older crowd, what we get here amounts to a lot less cheer and a lot more mockery. Part of that is the point, giving the main characters something to fight against in their limply-explained quest to be cheerleaders, but when it results in the audience being led into laughing at them, not with them, it sours what is already a curdled product.

All of that combines into a film seemingly made for no-one and being seen by no-one, one riddled with so much tonal mismanagement, clichés and just plain bewildering decisions that I can’t think of a single reason why I would ever recommend this to anyone. I mean, my grandmother introduced me to Love, Death & Robots, and my great-grandmother still watches Richard Pryor stand-up specials, so they know dark comedy far better than this film does.