In 1987 Oakland, a mysterious force guides The Town's underdogs in four interconnected tales: teen punks defend their turf against Nazi skinheads, a rap duo battles for hip-hop immortality, a weary...
Two words I would use to best describe “Freaky Tales” in a nutshell would be….comfortably aloof.
What immediately pricked up my ears and my concerns regarding this isn’t so much the movie being an anthology series but what those actual strings entailed that tied everything together in a flashy but loosely threaded knot; this story is told through four chapters, each from the perspective of one of four individuals but while the threads do become clearer over the course of the runtime, the running bit that does so is flimsy and even separated, all of these short stories feel like overzealous sketches rather than fully realized narrative epics. Relatively slight in execution, only half of these stories are schlocky by default while the rest get by either on entertainment value, emotional storytelling or consistent thematic resonance to combatting misogyny, racism, jabs at the establishment left behind by those in charge and the tribalism we partake in when we’re distracted on the things that matter most to us. Despite those themes falling under the broader umbrella of classic underdog stories and carrying that shaggy energy all the way through, it never amounts to more than the sum of its parts with a squirrelly focus that’s equal parts scattershot and soulful.
And believe it or not, I can buy that being the entire point of this.
This is a personal tribute to Ryan Fleck’s childhood in Oakland but also an unabashed homage to Quentin Tarantino’s style of non-linear storytelling, an exploitation film that doesn’t actually exploit, a mild alternate historical revisionist narrative and mostly, a pastiche eating fun-loving adventure aiming for cult classic movie status. It does fully embody the spirit of a midnight movie—unruly, referential, held together by pure chutzpah and the hope that you’ll find something in the wild collage that feels, if not true, then at least true to the people who wrote it. And beneath this genre play is a kind of feverish sincerity, an earnest wish to both preserve and distort a personal history—a love letter not just to a city, but to a whole constellation of movies and cultural detritus that shape how we remember growing up, even when we didn’t grow up there ourselves.
I’ve always stressed from time to time that the vibe makes the movie just as much as the written narrative does but it’s always tricky to pick apart which is which when one dominates most of the conversation. It doesn’t dig nearly as deep into the 80’s cultural zeitgeist as Love Lies Bleeding does but the counter-culture essence that permeated the era is still fresh. Not only is the narrative wrought in how intentionally loose and baggy it is with its detached pieces, you can feel that glee behind every self-indulgent tangent, the pride in showing off how something simple as a favorite local dive bar or iconic building staple or a forgotten urban legend, became the impulse, the raw material for a city’s actual mythos.
To think it’s been nearly six years since I’ve seen Ryan Fleck and Anna Boden’s last feature and I can already tell this is one of their better efforts as directors. In contrast to their tightly controlled efforts within the MCU, there’s a dreamlike liquidity to how openly they allow for moments of both levity and introspection while never straying from their over-the-top, raucous bonanza of style-over-substance. Although it struggles to establish a distinct identity, their direction possesses a warmth and comfort that’s palpable, genuine and radiates more heartfelt emotion than Captain Marvel, unabashedly displaying its soul for all to see.
Full disclosure though, I love the visual aesthetic used to present everything; the presentation was clearly the one thing with the most effort put into it, emulating the old videotape Grindhouse formatted cable clips in VHS form with three separate aspect ratios to differentiate said transitions while creating an overarching mood of unpredictability and dizzying energy with its atmosphere. Production design is where this becomes the most apparent: with its low-rent cheesy aura and the scratchy vibrant style it paints, it’s very a nostalgic, semi-strategic homage in settling into the locations they go to to make Oakland feel as integral a character to the proceedings as possible; like I said earlier, pastiche is the name of the game and that spontaneity mirrors the film's freewheeling spirit. Jac Fitzgerald’s camera treats those streets as both hallowed ground and abstract cartoon, with vignettes resembling a Polaroid snatched from a teenager's secret stash - hazy around the edges, infused with a resident sweetness and tartness simultaneously; its always in control of itself while Robert Komatsu’s editing bottles up that momentum and keeps it on a constant swivel.
Tone, as expected, dives headfirst into its B-movie schlockiness with gleeful abandon in its embrace of campy absurdity while the colorful costumes once again make for decent color psychology for where our characters stand. An eclectic soundtrack fills the air, blending catchy era-appropriate tunes with the occasional catchy yet slightly uneven compositions from Raphael Saadiq that banks itself heavily on evoking nostalgia, coupled with sturdy pacing and a runtime that feels just right—long enough to savor the wild ride but brief enough to ensure no moment feels like it's wearing out its welcome. After all, this is movie strictly about the journey.
Also, the action is about as pulpy as one might expect in a feature such as this. Said action far from the cleanest of sequences as far as shot composition and effects go, and it get a little tiresome with its constant fetishization of violence (although given the circumstances presented in this movie and happening now in real life, the hatred towards Nazis will never NOT be understandable), but it’s yet another case of the movie's flaws adding to its charm, rather than detracting from it.
The performances are universally solid, each actor embodying their respective role with aplomb despite the typical archetypes they’re embodying; Pedro Pascal as the emotionally stunted gruff guy, Ben Mendelsohn as the sleazy antagonist, just to name some examples. Jay Ellis, Normani and Dominique Throne were the main standouts to me, and the most charismatic.
Going in blind probably was the best thing I could’ve done for this movie; from a scriptwriting perspective, it’s one of those features that feel so close to being about something important. But everything else reminds you of its true purpose: loud, flashy, sometimes fun, but ultimately forgettable throwback.
