rye Lane (2023) revIew

By Flora Stokes

Having spent the last six months raving to anyone who will listen about Charlotte Wells’ directorial debut Aftersun (2022), it’s now time for me to turn your attention to another feature film novice: Raine Allen-Miller. Though ‘novice’ is maybe a stretch… the Mancunian has directed several music videos, advertisements, and a short film about the Windrush generation titled Jerk (2018). This history of experience is evident in her recent debut feature Rye Lane (2023), a film colourful and wacky enough to send the makers of Deliveroo’s whimsical adverts into spirals of resentment. A self-professed “love letter to South London”, the film follows two young adults as they meander through the streets of Brixton and Peckham. Note my use of the word “follows” here – the camera becomes an ambler of its own as it pans, ducks, tracks, and weaves its way alongside their journey.

Motion is imbued within the film from the start. It opens with a bird’s eye view shot, taking us quickly over events unfolding in various toilet cubicles, each seemingly disconnected in space and time. Young girls take selfies in a mirror, a businessman shouts on the phone, and a mother changes her baby’s nappy. Ultimately, we arrive at the toilet of our destiny, where Dom (David Jonsson) is crying. A not-so-cute meet-cute ensues as our other protagonist, Yas (Vivian Oparah), is unable to wash her hands in peace on account of Dom’s sniffling. Over 85 minutes and multiple boroughs, the two strangers talk love, exes, and the rock-bottom of finding yourself crying into your fifteenth Greggs sausage roll of that week.

Allen-Miller’s South London lifts a bemused eyebrow at the whitewashed capital of Notting Hill (dir. Michell, 1999) and the less whitewashed (yet somewhat anaesthetised) capital of the Paddington films. Many of Rye Lane’s sequences sing proudly of the diasporic influences inherent within the genetic makeup of South London: (“Kingston, Jamaica – not upon-Thames”, as helpfully clarified by Dom). While paying homage to aspects of London’s multiculturalism which often go underrepresented, the film also allows itself the occasional embellishment: I am sad to say that Colin Firth doesn’t really work in a Brixton Village burrito stall called “Love Guactually”, and very rarely have elderly men in aquamarine sequined suits danced across my path in the middle of the day. These embellishments, although fanciful, speak to Allen-Miller’s belief that, despite the city’s magnitude, a community can be found. As is immediately obvious during the toilet-themed opening, Rye Lane isn’t afraid to jump around in time and space, and its most delightful sequences consist of Dom and Yas wandering through the retellings of their break-ups. When Yas delivers the iconic life principle, “If you make the hummus, you get the head”, a theatre filled with Doms breaks out in applause. In an age that is witnessing the deaths of many inde- pendent cinemas, it is comforting to know that even if this film played in an empty room, it would not play without an audience. As Rye Lane draws to a close, it slips into the somewhat predictable and hackneyed mould of the romantic comedy genre. Even the camera seems to demand a rest, as still, shots begin to dominate the sequences. Regardless, the Duracell-bunny energy and constant motion of the film’s first half are more than enough to tide you over; and worry not, the endlessly fun set design and costume persist throughout. I leave you with a question: Why are we arguing over whether Burna Boy or Barry Keoghan wore it better at the MET gala when Dom wore it first?