** out of ****
Directed by: Bruce Robinson
Starring: Johnny Depp, Amber Heard, Aaron Eckhart, Michael Rispoli and Giovanni Ribisi
Running time: 119 minutes
On the surface, Hunter S. Thompson is a writer whose (mis)adventures seem like a perfect fit for the big screen. Often hailed as the creator of gonzo journalism, which blurs the non-fiction, objective aspects of a story with the more exaggerated fictions of the author’s making, Thompson’s penchant for substance abuse and his biting, sardonic social commentary have made him a literary icon, especially since his death in 2005.
But what may be poetically provocative on the page doesn't translate well onto celluloid. Terry Gilliam's adaptation of the author's masterwork, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, captured Thompson's salty, drug-raddled visions but not his voice. In The Rum Diary, his ramblings are there but the narrative arc is incoherent and becomes ultimately worthless.
In both films, Thompson is portrayed by Johnny Depp, once a close friend of the late journalist. Depp ratcheted up the lunacy in Las Vegas, but he is more subdued and gentle here as Paul Kemp, a Thompson surrogate.
Kemp travels to the bustling tropicana of San Juan, Puerto Rico, to work on an English-language newspaper that is, as its grumpy, toupeed editor (played by Richard Jenkins) puts it, “on its way out.” Regardless, Kemp still takes up residence with two reporters with a lifetime subscription to hard alcohol: a slouched but diligent writer named Bob Sala (Michael Rispoli), and a rum-infested leech named Moberg (played with bewildering, hungover gusto by Giovanni Ribisi) who never met a bottle he couldn’t choke down within minutes.
Beyond developing a taste for stronger liquors, Kemp becomes smitten with the ravishing, beach-blonde Chenault (Amber Heard). But she belongs to an arrogant businessman, Sanderson (Aaron Eckhart), who calls upon the struggling journalist to write favourably about a transaction he has made to transform Puerto Rico into a resort paradise for wealthy tourists.
Kemp sees the island as a spot for decay while Sanderson revels in how he has “an ocean of money” looming on the horizon. But, like most of the thread-bound episodes from The Rum Diary, this entry doesn’t amount to very much.
I don’t mind episodic narratives if the loosely connected ideas holding them all together are bound with a destination and purpose. But these colourful tales don’t have much bearing on the protagonist and The Rum Diary rarely builds momentum. It casually wanders from one set-piece to the next, as diary entries often do, but they never sum into a worthwhile whole.
Regardless, the performances keep us enthralled: Depp is casual and far more restrained than some of the loopier characters he had embodied since his catapult to the A-list this past decade, which allows him the chance to add gravitas and even light humour to the bizarre events happening around him. He offers his co-stars plenty of opportunities to rejoice in intoxicating spouts of energy – Rispoli and Ribisi are particularly strong as his compadres – and Amber Heard is an undeniable screen presence, glowing with a classic 1950s allure.
Like Heard, the film looks sumptuous, with its nifty aerial photography offerring sparkling views of red Chevrolets and gorgeous blue waters. But the sour psyche of Hunter S. Thomspon, the drawing factor of any text reliant on the late journalist’s hysterical brilliance, is too dry and dilluted. In The Rum Diary, the Puerto Rican inhabitants aren’t the only things that get wasted.
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