Just as the short and squat British cars of the late 1950s and early 1960s sprouted chrome and tailfins in an attempt to ape their longer, wider American counterparts (such as the majestic Buick that is stolen by Baby here), this script reads like a lesser, Anglicised version of Goodfellas.
I dislike both amoral stories of the interface between organised crime and business. However, that's a question of personal taste. I can recognise some merit in Jez Butterworth's breakthrough play, hence the second star in my rating. I wouldn't have guessed it was a hugely successful award-winner, though.
The premiss for the story, set in 1958, is the accidental discovery of a teenage rock and roll star with great potential, whom everyone would like a financial stake in. The action focuses on the hangers-on in a Soho nightclub who do their bosses' bidding, so most of the lines consist of inconsequential speculation and reaction, the real action being elsewhere. While the characters are fairly clearly differentiated, I didn't see any reason to care about their petty squabbles and jockeying for position. This was readable but rather uninteresting. I'm not sure what it was trying to do; it wasn't entertaining, shocking, innovative or evocative of time or place. This could almost have happened anywhere at any time. It had a strong ensemble feel, but no memorable lines.