The snack shack is a little old place where we can get some fuck-dogs
The opening hour of Snack Shack is actually a masterpiece. It’s been awhile since a piece of cinema really excited me, but the first half of Snack Shack had me practically laughing with joy. I’m not sure a smile ever left my face. I should’ve known it would be those two old workhorses — coming of age dramedy and throwback summer hangout — to break my movie-watching rut. Heck, after a particularly wonderful night-swimming scene, I was riding so I high that I was starting to wonder if this could even enter my pantheon of favorite movies.
Alas. It wasn’t to be. The film’s second hour loses sight of what makes the first half so fun, and it leaves a serious bad taste in my mouth. It’s a shame, because Snack Shack’s peak moments belong in the teen summer good-vibes annals alongside the likes of Adventureland, American Graffiti, and — dare I utter its name — Dazed and Confused.
The opening scene, one of the best of the film and my favorite opener in awhile, shows best friends A.J. (Conor Sherry) and Moose (Gabriel LaBelle) having snuck off from an end-of-school field trip in 1991 to a greyhound race track. The two fourteen-year-olds, smoking contraband cigarettes, frantically decide what bets to make. We immediately gather the dynamic between the pair: Moose is the instigator, ringleader, and scheme-planner, but A.J. has the instincts and self-awareness to keep the pair on the rails and make their operations work. (There are enough references to how inseparable the pair are — “we’re a package deal” — that I wondered a couple of times if the film was going to go the Tyler Durden route. Thankfully not.)
What unfolds over the next several scenes is a caffeinated sort of hangout movie — too much momentum and high-wire energy to really replicate the languid lazy-summer vibes of the film’s forbears, but delightfully inviting in its own unique way. A.J. and Moose are always looking for a way to make a few bucks, with each payout unlocking their next scheme, and the cycle continues. The pair have real ingenuity — they homebrew some beer they sell at a summer college party, and sniff out opportunities in strange places. All the meantime, they never forget to have fun, talking bullshit and going to parties and speculating about what the future might hold in that way that teens in these kind of movies so poetically do.
They eventually land on their big swing of the summer: making a bid to run the snack bar at the town pool. The place is a mess and they’re duped into burning hundreds of dollars in an overbid, but it’s satisfying (if rushed) to see them unlock the potential of the place and make it their own. It never gets old seeing them rake in cash from hungry swimmers who cinematically flare out dollar bills while ordering their “fuck-dogs” (a hot dog with the word “fuck” emblazoned on top in ketchup; the “fuck” costs an extra $0.75).
(I’ve thus far compared Snack Shack to shaggy summer jams like The Way Way Back, but I suppose the film more closely resembles a dudes-being-bros spin on Licorice Pizza — both films fundamentally about a relationship explored through entrepreneurial misadventures.)
The inevitable wrench in the gears of their best friendship and summer plans is a girl: Brooke (Mika Abdalla), who is staying with A.J.’s neighbor for the summer. Brooke, the effortlessly cool and free-spirited kind of girl that indie movies of this ilk traffic in, is inexplicably charmed by the awkward A.J. I assumed the film was setting us up for a “bros-before-hoes” conflict, but it instead goes for a totally misguided love triangle that completely derails the movie.
This love triangle is a real problem for many reasons. First, it causes not just friction between the dynamic duo at the heart of the story, but outright alienation. Because the film is told from A.J.’s perspective, this means we get a lot less Moose screentime in Snack Shack’s second half. This is a major downgrade because Moose is the film’s best character, with LaBelle offering the film’s best performance by a mile. LaBelle, who was quite good in Fabelmans, is an outright revelation here, hysterical and making each line reading a snotty but endearing master class. He’s an early Best Supporting Actor candidate in my eyes.
Second, the prominent placement of the love triangle assumes we are much more interested in Brooke than we actually are. No offense to Abdalla, but her character is little more than a walking, quipping smolder-flirt. A couple of references to her interest in photography don’t really add depth. The character’s indecisiveness re: boys makes her seem flighty. Because this movie is more about friendship, the romantic interest should add emotional texture and flavor to the proceedings around it, not drive the plot itself. (See: The Way Way Back for a better balanced romantic interest.)
More broadly than the love triangle plot is an overall loss of focus on what had made the movie work in the opening stretch. The sense of wonder and high-strung hunger of being 14 and wanting more out of life fizzles in favor of grumpy malaise. It could have been a change of pace for a scene or two, but it drags on and on. And just when it seems like the film is about to course correct, Moose and A.J. draw even further apart for another fifteen minutes. The film is inexplicably 115 minutes long, when it has the juice of something closer to 95 minutes.
The other key figure in the film is Shane (Nick Robinson — noticeably older and thicker than his Love, Simon days), a family friend of A.J.’s who takes him under his wing as an older brother figure and repeatedly (too often, I’d argue), saves him from trouble or pulls him aside for some slightly-older-young-adult chilling and soothsaying. Shane, back from some service time in the Gulf War, promises to take A.J. on a trip the following summer, so A.J. starts socking his cash away.
The film’s final fifteen minutes present a somber finale to a film that probably should have been more optimistic. And yet I didn’t hate the film’s sad twist; it’s got that same feeling of the pilot of The Wonder Years where loss is a cipher for coming of age in a world that will only grow darker and more complicated as we shed naivete and idealism and enter adulthood.
Snack Shack is written and directed by Adam Carter Rehmeier (who has a truly strange filmography including his exploitation debut The Bunny Game featuring explicit sex). Although his script stumbles, I’m quite taken with his direction. He uses a variety of techniques to capture a distinct feeling of each scene — some handheld close ups, some deep focus wide shots, some quick-cut montages, etc. — while still pulling it into a flavorful and consistent whole. The rich colors are less bleached and pastel than your normal summer jam (despite the poster).
The production is nice, too, though it’s an unspecifically nostalgic. I read it as a blend of ‘70s, ‘80s, and ‘90s touchstones rather than a sharp 1991 portrait. (The fits are spot-on for turn-of-1990, though.) Rehmeier creates a pleasing, intoxicating texture that is still quite tactile; just a terrifically well-realized timbre for a movie like this.
Halfway through Snack Shack, I was completely sure that I was in the middle of my favorite film of 2024. But it really squanders that goodwill and ends up merely “immensely charming but deeply flawed.” The weaker stretches are not outright bad; they have some great moments and lines packed in, and I’d still excitedly watch it again. But there are some scenes I’d be tempted to fast forward through on a rewatch, and that’s Kryptonite for a summer hangout movie that needs you totally immersed in its vibe.
Is It Good?
Very Good (6/8)
Dan is the founder and head critic of The Goods. Follow Dan on Letterboxd. Join the Discord for updates and discussion.