New York’s not just a backdrop here—it’s a third lead, grimy, wearing last night’s sweat like war paint, the kind of city where ambition curdles fast. Susan Seidelman shoots the dying days of the punk scene with the cracked energy of someone who’s lived it—no sheen, no sentimentality. Just grit, fumes and disappointment.
Wren, played with feral charm by Susan Berman, is a walking collage of borrowed cool and survival instinct. She wants fame—or at least to be near it—but the dream’s already expired, peeling like posters on a lamppost. She’s hard to root for, and that’s the point. She’s not selling out; there’s nothing left to sell. Richard Hell drifts through like a ghost of what might’ve been, but it’s the city that steals it—burning, buzzing, broken.
The whole film feels like a bruised mixtape: DIY, off-key, strangely compelling. Not a punk anthem, but maybe the B-side you keep coming back to.