Fun isn’t really part of Darren Aronofsky’s brand. Since exploding onto the independent movie scene with 1998’s micro-budget corker Pi, the director and off-and-on screenwriter has refused to be pigeon-holed, mounting anything from intimate character studies (The Wrestler and The Whale) to hellacious psychodramas (Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan) to quasi-biblical epics (Noah and mother!). Elasticity would appear to be a defining trait of his CV, but the dire undergirding is rigid enough to twist anything into its preferred shape, a flustered, perspiring knot of severity. Having a trademark style and interest set is baked into the auteurist proposition, and chiding Aronofsky for ever-circling a drain of his own making mistakes an authorial stamp for simple repetition. His is the cinema of gnarled pain and smarting remorse, which makes for an odd fit with a loquacious, mad-cap caper like Caught Stealing. The apparatus, built from equal parts Quentin Tarantino and Guy Ritchie, is as stringent and familiar as the filmmaker’s reflexive tilt toward oblivion, making coexistence out of the question. Only one paradigm wins out when such misaligned worldviews are sewn together; smart money is on the guy with the wheel.

That couldn’t be Hank (Austin Butler), the former baseball prodigy who’s let his life slip into autopilot in the wake of a driver’s seat mishap. Bartending at a seedy watering hole in late 90’s New York, the California transplant is a fountain of stilted self-pity, lapping up the attentive sympathy of his paramedic girlfriend (Zoë Kravitz) when he isn’t pulling just as greedily from the nearest bottle of hard liquor. This stationary existence meets an end when his miscreant neighbor Russ (Matt Smith) suddenly skips town, leaving Hank to fend off a slew of Russian mobsters and Hasidic gangsters who come violently calling in his wake. With opposing forces bearing down, demanding information that Hank doesn’t have, the erstwhile wunderkind is forced to pound the pavement for answers, reengaging a sense of autonomy that’s long been subsumed by doubt.

All these assailants, attacking for different reasons and from disparate angles, would seem to promise a topsy-turvy, unpredictable journey through the Big Apple’s underbelly, but Aronofsky only tells stories in straight lines. This one, like all the others, exclusively points south, and where other offerings in this tried-and-true genre make hay by zigging and zagging, Stealing is all escalation. There’s no sideswiping, no secret lairs, and no trapdoors that go anywhere but down; every new encounter is just another excuse to watch Butler get beaten to a pulp. The torment is upsettingly visceral, which can be exciting in its own, counterintuitive way, especially when a domineering collection of original songs by the British rock band Idles booms out of multiplex speakers, but it’s certainly not joyous. Casting Griffin Dunne in a small role is surely meant to recall the haphazard frenzy of Martin Scorsese’s After Hours, but the 1985 classic’s allure is born of being blissfully thrown about by a serpentine structure. Stealing resists the pull of delirium, holding on to its known confines for dear life.

Optically speaking, this sense of maladjustment extends to Butler, whose loser act is undermined by the actor’s matinee idol looks, but he’s no stranger to fighting against his own objective beauty. With the exception of his winning James Dean impersonation in last year’s underrated The Bikeriders, the burgeoning star’s resume is filled with cosmetic alteration (Dune: Part Two, Elvis) and cult-assisted creepiness (Once Upon a Time… In Hollywood, Eddington). Stealing represents his first crack at normalcy, and while the exterior strains credulity, the aura is irrefutable, and so is the performance. Whether mumbling through an apology, summoning dormant courage, or making bedroom eyes at Kravitz, you buy in spite of your own eyes. Charisma is an innate feature, and Butler’s got it in spades.

So do Kravitz and Smith, which makes each thespian’s measured deployment almost maddening. Judiciousness has its merits, but movies like Caught Stealing aren’t supposed to consist of careful measurements, and benching both of Butler’s costars for extended periods isn’t tantalizing so much as deflating. Kravitz, in particular, shows up with energy and charm to spare and is given precious little to do, allowing her animal magnetism with Butler to seep out like air from a poorly tied balloon. The moments they do share are electric, to the point where a foreplay sequence near the start, which wisely overstays its practical use, is likely to outlast the movie in our cultural memory. Its steamy superfluousness gestures toward a more involving film, if only Aronofsky could meet the smoldering gaze and take a hint.

Instead, we’re treated to a cavalcade of cultural archetypes masquerading as characters, with ethnic diversity signifying chaos in a flick that’s otherwise committed to the tracks. They’re not stereotypes, mind you; Liev Schreiber, Vincent D’Onofrio, and Benito Martínez Ocasio (aka Bad Bunny) are all too thinly-drawn to offend. The panoply is for decorative purposes only, which is also true of Bud, the domestic longhair who falls into Hank’s reluctant care in the early goings, and proceeds to take on double duty as a symbol of randomness and a hoarding place for audience sympathy. Watching scribe Charlie Huston, adapting his own novel of the same name, take cues from Blake Snyder’s screenwriting manifesto Save the Cat! In the most literal sense imaginable is good for a weary laugh, but the joke’s on you if further development is expected. Hank’s oft-cited obsession with the San Francisco Giants might constitute deeper shading, with the baseball club’s 1958 move from Manhattan to the Bay functioning as a mirror for Butler’s coastal displacement, but that’s only if you do the intellectual leg work on your own time. As presented, the guy just loves swinging bats. 

The aforementioned feline returns in cartoon form during the closing credits, implying a playfulness and whimsy that goes unevidenced during the proper runtime. It’s disingenuous, which is difficult to stomach given how earnestly we need movies like the one it feints at to keep being financed. Heedless tomfoolery and fervent smut are necessary modes for a healthy filmic ecosystem, especially when handled by someone of Aronofsky’s talents. Most of his household name contemporaries are too concerned with largess and meaning to make anything as hearteningly low brow as Caught Stealing, making this one an (ig)noble effort, even as the ingredients don’t suit the chef. If the Butler train keeps chugging along, there’s a chance this one gets rediscovered as early proof of concept in a celebrated career, but as it stands, the Fountain helmer’s latest is a middling entry into a beloved, reliable genre. The floor only sinks so low on these things, a pop art truth that Aronofsky could stand to learn for his own emotional well-being. Chin up, buddy; there’s mischief to be done, and it needn’t be so dour.