'Motor City' review: Style overwhelms substance in this Detroit-set revenge thriller

Courtesy of IFC Films

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Humming with David Bowie’s “Cat People” over a neon-soaked Detroit and opening with a title card that reads “1977,” director Potsy Ponciroli’s “Motor City” certainly knows how to get this Michigander’s attention. It bursts off the line with confidence, but ultimately stalls almost as quickly as it starts. It’s an ambitious swing, and one you almost have to admire on audacity alone, attempting to strip away the well-worn conventions of gritty revenge thrillers from the Charles Bronson and Jean-Claude Van Damme era by making the film nearly dialogue-free for much of its runtime. It’s a bold formal experiment, asking Alan Ritchson to carry nearly the entire movie through sheer physicality. Nobody doubts the “Reacher” star has the imposing presence to crack a skull with nothing more than a flex of his bicep, but the dramatic weight required to sustain a gimmick like this rests squarely on his linebacker-sized shoulders, and it never quite gets there.

Surrounded by a respectable supporting cast that includes Shailene Woodley, Ben Foster, and Pablo Schreiber, Ritchson is largely left to grunt, glare, and emote his way through a story that’s simple enough to follow, propelled more by a steady stream of needle drops than meaningful character interaction. He plays John Miller, a blue-collar everyman who finds himself pulled into Detroit’s criminal underworld after crossing paths with drug kingpin Reynolds (Foster). An opening sequence, bookended by slow-motion shots of a body being disposed of alongside a gleaming muscle car, sets the tone immediately. It’s undeniably stylish, although Ponciroli leans on those slow-motion flourishes a little too much.

John is deeply in love with his waitress girlfriend Sophia (Woodley, doing the best she can with an unfortunately thankless role), and just as he’s about to propose, he’s arrested by a squad of crooked cops led by Savick (Schreiber, sporting a wonderfully over-the-top leather trench coat) and thrown into prison on fabricated charges. As the film’s nonlinear structure slowly fills in the blanks, we learn Reynolds has been obsessed with Sophia himself and orchestrated the entire setup to eliminate his competition. It’s a classic revenge premise, and not an especially surprising one, but that’s not the issue. The problem is how emotionally distant the storytelling remains. The movie spends so much time emphasizing its near-silent approach—characters communicating through nods, lingering stares, or simply sipping coffee—that what initially feels clever gradually becomes a crutch. Silence can be powerful, but eventually it starts creating distance where the film desperately needs intimacy.

The movie finally finds another gear in its back half when John, with help from allies on the outside, devises an increasingly absurd prison escape involving a makeshift shiv carved from soap before embarking on his inevitable revenge mission. By this point, however, another issue becomes impossible to ignore. Despite its title, Detroit feels almost incidental. Aside from a handful of recognizable landmarks—including a brief glimpse of the Fox Theatre that honestly looked AI-generated—the city never develops an identity of its own. It raises the obvious question: why set the movie here at all if Detroit isn’t going to become a character in the story?

Ironically, once “Motor City” stops worrying about its gimmick and simply embraces being an action movie, it’s at its best. Ritchson, operating in full Stallone mode, tears through waves of henchmen with convincing brutality, culminating in one of the year’s most kinetic and gloriously bloody action sequences inside a cramped elevator. It’s the kind of set piece that reminds you exactly what the movie is capable of. Unfortunately, that also makes the climactic confrontation with Reynolds feel oddly deflated by comparison. Another late-stage time jump muddies the emotional payoff instead of strengthening it, and what should have been a satisfying conclusion lands with an awkward thud that borders on unintentionally funny.

The soundtrack deserves plenty of credit, featuring well-timed selections from Fleetwood Mac, Bill Withers, Donna Summer, and The Moody Blues that inject energy whenever the narrative begins to sputter. One Christmas-themed musical cue during a holiday set piece feels strangely out of place, but it’s hardly the movie’s biggest issue. Ultimately, no collection of great songs can compensate for characters who remain frustratingly thin. Ritchson, meanwhile, continues to prove he’s an immensely likable screen presence beneath all the muscle. Ironically, I have a feeling he’d absolutely crush a romantic comedy.

In the end, Ponciroli’s attempt to reinvent the vintage revenge thriller is admirable, but admiration only carries a movie so far. The near-silent approach loses its novelty, the screenplay never gives its characters enough emotional depth, and a setting as rich as Detroit is reduced to little more than window dressing. There’s enough adrenaline-fueled carnage here to satisfy action fans, particularly during its exhilarating final stretch, but for a period piece named after Michigan’s most iconic city, you’d expect a lot more flavor on the bones. “Motor City” has horsepower. It just never finds enough road.

Grade: C

MOTOR CITY is now playing in theaters.