I Used to Be Famous

Imagine the 1990s: the frosted tips, the synchronized pointing, the oversized white suits, and the screaming fans who would eventually trade their posters for mortgage applications. We’ve seen the "washed-up pop star" trope before, usually played for cheap laughs or tragic irony. But I Used to Be Famous decides to take that keyboard-carrying, raincoat-wearing figure and give him something far more valuable than a comeback tour—it gives him a soul.

I stumbled upon this one late on a Tuesday night while eating a slightly stale digestive biscuit, and the dry crunching provided a surprisingly percussive accompaniment to the street-performing scenes. It’s the kind of film the Netflix algorithm often buries under true crime documentaries and glitzy actioners, but it’s a quiet, rhythmic gem that deserves a spot in your "to-watch" queue.

The Grime of the Has-Been

Vince, played with a weary, desperate energy by Ed Skrein (you might know him as the original Daario Naharis from Game of Thrones or the villain in Deadpool), is a man living in the echo of his own youth. He was once part of "Stereo Dream," a boy band that clearly occupied the same cultural space as Westlife or Boyzone. Now, he’s busking in Peckham with a portable keyboard and a dream that’s more of a persistent itch than a vision.

Skrein’s face is basically a roadmap of bad decisions and lost dreams. He manages to shed the "action hero" physique for something leaner and more frantic. He isn't just playing a guy who wants to be famous again; he’s playing a guy who doesn't know who he is without the applause. When he meets Stevie, a neurodivergent young drummer with an incredible sense of rhythm, the movie finds its heartbeat. Their impromptu jam session on a public bench is the kind of cinematic moment that could easily feel "movie-magic" fake, but here, it feels like two people finally speaking the same language.

Beyond the Inspiration Porn

One of my biggest gripes with contemporary dramas involving neurodiversity is the tendency to drift into "inspiration porn"—where the character with a disability exists solely to teach the protagonist a life lesson. Directed by Eddie Sternberg (expanding on his 2015 short film), I Used to Be Famous mostly avoids this trap. The relationship between Vince and Stevie is transactional at first, then messy, and eventually genuinely communal.

Eleanor Matsuura, who I loved in The Walking Dead, brings a grounded, protective steeliness to the role of Amber, Stevie’s mother. She isn't just a hurdle for Vince to jump over; she’s a woman who has built a fortress around her son and is understandably wary of a man who looks like he’s one bad day away from a breakdown. The tension between her and Ed Skrein provides the film’s most realistic dramatic weight.

We also get glimpses of Vince’s past through Eoin Macken, who plays Austin, the former bandmate who actually stayed famous. The contrast between Vince’s cramped flat and Austin’s sterile, high-end life highlights a very modern anxiety: the idea that success is a zero-sum game.

A Soundtrack for the Left Behind

In an era of over-produced movie musicals, the soundscape here is refreshingly raw. The music—crafted by David M Saunders—doesn't sound like Top 40 hits; it sounds like "found" music. It’s the clatter of sticks on buckets and the hum of a cheap synth. It captures that specific London vibe where art happens in the gaps between the traffic and the noise.

The music scenes are actually good, which is a miracle for a movie about a guy who used to be in a boy band. Usually, these films feature songs that make you realize why the band broke up in the first place, but the collaboration between Vince and Stevie feels like a genuine evolution. Even the supporting turns, like Neil Stuke as Dennis or Kurt Egyiawan as Dia, help flesh out a world that feels lived-in rather than manufactured on a soundstage.

The cinematography by Angus Hudson treats Peckham with an affectionate eye—it’s gray and rainy, yes, but there’s color in the markets and the community centers. It reflects the film’s central thesis: that there is beauty in the "used to be" if you’re willing to look at what’s right in front of you.

I Used to Be Famous is a lovely bit of counter-programming in our current era of franchise dominance. It’s a mid-budget, character-driven drama that doesn't try to reinvent the wheel but instead makes sure the wheel is perfectly tuned. While it hits a few predictable beats toward the end, the chemistry between the leads and the lack of cynicism make it an incredibly easy film to love. It’s a reminder that even if your "time" has passed, you can still find a brand-new rhythm.