"Gasoline Alley" by-the-numbers dreck that wants to be scuzzy noir pulp

Gasoline Alley (2022)

Is Bruce Willis okay? Remembering the time when a new movie starring the action idol generated fanfare and actually received a wide theatrical release is but a depressing memory. Somehow, in this economy, Willis starred in eight—yes, between seven and nine—movies that were released last year as if by contractual obligation. Most of them didn’t even look like real movies, based on the lazy poster art alone, and it’s likely not many (besides professional critics and those with undiscriminating taste) saw them, let alone heard of them. Sadly not an adaptation of the classic comic strip, “Gasoline Alley” is this year’s latest VOD-ready thriller with Willis getting second billing, and it’s mostly DOA.

Devon Sawa is actually the star here, swaggering and chain-smoking as the tough, grizzled Jimmy Jayne. A mechanic and tattoo artist who owns local shop Gasoline Alley, Jimmy—and his shop-branded lighter—just happens to be at the wrong dive bar at the right time one night. When his lighter is found at the crime scene of four dead women, including a sex worker and aspiring actress named Star (Irina Antonenko) Jimmy met the night before, the LAPD implicates Jimmy as the prime suspect. Detective partners Bill Freeman (Willis) and Freddy Vargas (Luke Wilson) won’t let him leave town, so Jimmy decides to do some digging and begin his own investigation. A car chase and another dead body found in his trunk are all he needs to know that someone sees him as an easy mark. Who’s pinning the murders on Jimmy? Will he be shocked by the bigger conspiracy he finds? 

On its own terms as a by-the-numbers dirtbag-cop thriller ostensibly set in Los Angeles, “Gasoline Alley” would just be terminally mediocre. While some slick cinematography and moody lighting make it seem far from abysmal, perhaps that's being charitable for how the rest of this junk plays out. Director Edward John Drake (who seems to have taken a blood oath to be the main one writing scripts for Bruce Willis lately) tries going for a scuzzy, pulpy neo-noir that somehow brings together the LAPD, Hollywood culture, and sex trafficking. He might have gotten away with it with a little more seasoning and a good script, but someone like Joe Carnahan could probably execute this kind of tough-as-nails material in his sleep and better. Save for a not-bad car chase around some railroad tracks, there’s no suspense and no real mystery to solve. Drake and co-writer Tom Sierchio’s screenplay is thoroughly rote as if written on a bunch of cocktail napkins back in 2002, murkily plotted, and full of inane dialogue. For those who like unintentional comedy from bad writing, there is an exchange between Detective Vargas and Jimmy where the actors must have had to really reach a dark headspace to not roll their eyes. “He’s a good guy. He’s my kid’s godfather,” Vargas says in defending his partner, to which Jimmy responds, “Hitler loved dogs.” Or, there’s the time when a hack screenwriter being interrogated in a chokehold calls Jimmy a “spermless testicle.”

Sawa is definitely trying, knowing what kind of movie he’s in and selling the hard-boiled fall-guy archetype with moments of no-fucks-to-give volatility. Wilson comes in hot, immediately ruffling Jimmy's feathers as “the worst detective in the city” before becoming an okay guy. Then there’s Mr. Bruce Willis. Playing a bored, weary police detective and the most indifferent family man, Willis looks like he just woke up from a nap before every scene. Putting in what is a barely functional performance of grimaces, nods, the occasional line but no inner life, his phoned-in apathy is transparent even without a lie detector test. Midway through, the film’s most human performance is given by Sufe Bradshaw as backup singer Eleanor Rigby, whom Jimmy chats with for information. Bradshaw brings some much-needed nuance in just two scenes before becoming a prop to the plot, and when she goes off-screen, you want to go with her.

Whenever the movie shows base-level competence and even a little gusto, a glaringly sloppy mistake isn’t far away. For instance, as much as it tries faking itself to be an oily, smoky dark-underbelly version of L.A., Tifton, Georgia is an unconvincing stand-in (but you got to love those production tax breaks). If we needed more reason, a sign inside the police precinct clearly reads “Police Department, Tifton, Ga.,” and then moments later we get a freeway sign for Long Beach amidst the glistening citywide exteriors of the City of Angels. Channel-surfing dads may find a grungy late-night flick appeal in "Gasoline Alley" when it ends up on Netflix, but doing anything else would be a better use of time. As of now, the next Bruce Willis-Edward John Drake collaboration doesn’t seem to be scheduled, but if Willis were to actually stop making dreck, someone would have to file a missing person report. 

Grade: D +

Saban Films is releasing “Gasoline Alley” (97 min.) in select theaters and on demand on February 25, 2022.