John Carney's "Power Ballad" Sings a Sour Note on Artistic Betrayal

John Carney has carved a peculiar niche in modern cinema. Think Dublin, a guitar, and a dream. His films—Once, Sing Street—are cinematic lullabies. They soothe, they inspire. You walk out believing in the raw, transformative power of a simple chord progression. They’re charming, yes. Gentle? Absolutely. But beneath the surface, a new Carney venture, Power Ballad, might just strike a discordant note.

On paper, it promised more of the same. A comforting melody. Paul Rudd, eternally boyish, plays Rick: a Kansas City rocker transplanted to Dublin, fifteen years deep. He fell for an Irish girl, never looked back. Now, that rock-and-roll muse, Rachel (Marcella Plunkett), is his wife. Their daughter, Aja (Beth Fallon), is sharp. Likely named for Steely Dan. Nobody feels the need to confirm it. Some things just are.

Rick’s life? Settled. He fronts The Bride & Groove, a wedding band. They’re good. Damn good. Slick covers, professional aplomb. "Celebration." "The Boys Are Back in Town." They own these songs. Rick’s an easygoing frontman. A ready smile. Harmless, if a bit flirty. Every bridesmaid is safe, but hey, a girl can dream.

But the rock-and-roll dream? Still flickers. Rick yearns for something beyond cover gigs. And then, a wedding. A tony estate. A superfamous guest: Danny, played by Nick Jonas. A boy band veteran. His solo career? Floundering. He wants back to basics. Knows not how. Rick, initially miffed by the spotlight hog, finds a kinship. Late night. Drinks. Songwriting tips. Danny, grateful. Rick shares a song. Years in the making. Unfinished. The two part. Cordially. Rick expects nothing. Just a good chat.

The Echo of Betrayal

Months pass. Shock. Danny, back in L.A., releases a smash hit. The very song Rick shared. Gut punch. It’s a bitter pill. Power Ballad then plunges into Rick’s attempts to reclaim his art. Humiliation. Frustration. Even an incident that strains his family. This should be Carney magic, right? A bittersweet journey. Yet, it isn’t.

The performers aren't the problem. Jonas, with his smooth moves and creamy croon? Alarmingly appealing. He wins over kids, parents. Understands the game. Rudd, the happy mid-lifer craving more? Poignant. He should be content. His wife, cool. His daughter, no fool. She tells him old love songs are out. Young women want revenge. Ouch.

When a person steals your song, they may as well be stealing part of your soul.

Middle-aged disillusionment touches Paul Rudd. What defense do we have? Rick’s betrayal is deeply personal. Painful to watch. Carney usually nails the breezy-fun-with-a-twist-of-mournfulness. But here? The soul-theft feels too raw. Too much. The film resolves it, eventually. A happy ending, sort of. But the lingering taste is not rejuvenation. It's mild depression.

This film, wittingly or not, speaks to our moment. We live in an age where AI promises efficiency, creativity. But the core of human inventiveness? It’s commodified. Here, the thievery is purely human. Old-fashioned. But the premise? Horrifying. An idea, protected, nurtured for years. Stolen. Instantly. By someone with more power. This belief that everything can be righted, with a neat bow? Perhaps that’s the saddest fantasy of all.