Let’s rephrase the question slightly: Is the idea of watching Cillian Murphy unravel in spectacular, actorly fashion worth navigating a lot of sound and fury signifying next to nothing?
There are a few different movies jockeying for screen time in Steve, the British handwringer that drops on Netflix today, and yet one of them clearly has the best chance of winning its survival-of-the-fittest competition. You’ve got the cluttered social-issues drama set in the mid-1990s, centered around an institution named Stanton Wood that seeks to help at-risk teens and is on the brink of having its funding cut. Our initial entry into this world is through a news crew, who’ve shown up to do a human interest story; to call the intrusive reporter (Priyanga Burford) who asks in a clipped voice whether this isn’t “an expensive dumping ground for society’s waste product, a radical progressive educational intervention, a waiting room for [prison], or maybe… all of the above” a caricature, or this mockumentary format clumsy, would be kind. Later, when a pompous parliamentary representative (The Thick of It‘s Roger Allam) shows up for a photo op, you can feel an attempt at broader satire trying to worm its way through the muck as well.
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Typically, the focus would be on the boys themselves, and to his credit, director Tim Mielants has assembled an impressively rowdy gaggle of up-and-coming actors to play all the young dudes. Some, like the volatile shit-stirrer Jamie (Luke Ayres), and Tarone (Tut Nyuot), a scrapper accused of assaulting a staff member, get fleshed out more than others. Even they’re relegated to little more than supporting players and symbolic representations of troubled youth straight out of a BBC kitchen-sink passion play. Ironically, the student we do come to know the best is the one who’s a tightly closed book: Shy (Jay Lycurgo, the film’s secret weapon). He’s the resident sensitive, ticking timebomb who drowns out the world with a constant, Walkman-enabled soundtrack of drum and bass. His name is well-earned, though hints of a violent past and the rage we witness him taking out on a chair suggests an inner turmoil destined to boil over into self-destruction.
None of these aforementioned media trolls, smarmy politicos or angry young men are called Steve, we should point out, and the fact that the movie and Cillian Murphy’s school administrator share the same name reveals that the winner of this narrative battle royale is its central character study. Steve is several recognizable types in one. He’s the sympathetic authority figure, the kind of Mr. Chips-style wonder teacher who tries to break through his student’s tough-guy barriers and talk to them on their level. He’s the voice of a viewer’s frustration at society’s inability to care for those that need it most, especially when he loses his cool at hearing Stanton Wood’s benefactors announce they’ve sold the property. And he’s a total fucking mess, prone to popping pills, sneaking hard-liquor sips and the occasional Oxycodone coffee break.
In other words, Steve is a lot to play, and the Oscar-winner throws himself into every forlorn expression, every kindly mentoring session, every manic bit of rushing to and fro as chaos reigns around him, every stumbling step toward self-medicating into oblivion. Murphy tries to wring everything out of this showcase, in both his solo turns and his exchanges with Tracey Ullman’s fellow supervisor and Emily Watson’s in-house therapist. (There is, regrettably nothing on the level of the showstopping scene between Murphy and Watson in the director’s previous, and far superior collaboration with these heavy hitters, 2024’s Small Things Like These — see that film if you haven’t yet.) As he proved in Oppenheimer, his silences can speak volumes, and some of Steve‘s best moments simply involve you watching him think.
And yet, because the strain of being unable to help these poor kids and protecting them from tearing each other apart and trying to keep the lights on in this much-needed facility and ensuring his staff that they are safe from the instability their wards bring to the party is somehow not enough, the movie feels the need to give him a trauma-drama backstory as well. It’s handled in such a slapdash, klutzy manner, and feels so cut-rate, that you may find yourself raging alongside the movie’s youngsters. Not even Murphy can sell it, and Steve once again thrusts a version of that opening question in your face: Is watching a great actor suffer through a mediocre movie worth it? Your response may vary. We know our answer.
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