Last fall, I went with friends to see a popular British rock band at Madison Square Garden. I went in a fan of the group, but with every interchangeable song, every self-important gesture, I grew farther apart from the crowd around me: The more they enjoyed the music, the more it bored me. I had been pulled into a conversation with 20,000 other people, but I had nothing to say. By the first set break, I wanted to leave; by the third, I needed to escape.
Cooper (Josh Hartnett), the protagonist of M. Night Shyamalan’s recent thriller “Trap,” probably knows how I felt. A hunky, hopelessly square man in his 40s, Cooper has taken his teenage daughter, Riley (Ariel Donoghue), to see her favorite musician, Lady Raven. Cooper is a model dad, bringing his daughter to the special matinee and searching for the perfect concert T-shirt — but whatever his desire to support her fandom, he can’t share it. Instead he spends the concert wandering the arena halls, surreptitiously listening to something else.
Lady Raven is played by the independent pop musician (and daughter of the director) Saleka Shyamalan, who wrote a full album of original songs for the film. She has been cast as the kind of blandly contemporary pop star who might reasonably appeal to teenagers. Glimpsed in brief, her music comes across as snappy, dutiful and necessarily muted, each melody just memorable enough to register without pulling our focus from Cooper.
This being a Shyamalan film, there must also be a twist. The model dad is in fact a notorious serial killer with a victim in his safe house. The concert has been set up to trap him. Yet you don’t side with the police: Listening to Lady Raven with him, you sympathize with Cooper’s need to get out.
“Trap” is hardly the first film to make use of fictional music — fake pop songs that let directors and musicians create alternate cultural realities in the shadow of our own. Many of cinema’s made-up hits are genuinely catchy. But they rarely transcend pastiche: Mostly, they convince us via their similarity to songs we already know.
Some of the best come from spoofs. In “This Is Spinal Tap,” from 1984, the titular metal group is captured in a low moment — failing albums, low ticket sales — but a survey of their past hits, like “(Listen to the) Flower People” and “Gimme Some Money,” reveals how absurd their popularity has been all along. (The music, though, is easy to believe in: Silly as they seem, Spinal Tap rocks.) Similarly, the Lonely Island’s songs from “PopStar: Never Stop Never Stopping” (2016) combine undeniable hooks with ridiculous content: a braggadocio anthem about humility, a sex jam about a woman with an Osama bin Laden fetish. The punchlines wouldn’t land if the songs supporting them were not fluent in the language of contemporary pop-rap; to properly spoof this kind of music, you have to love it, at least a little.
