The Rum Diary: Fails to Go Far Enough

We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.

It was the summer after sixth grade when I discovered Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and from the opening line onward, I could never go back. Outwardly, it seemed to manifest itself as a desire to do all of the drugs ever, that I might experience this world of shifting perspectives and nightmarish joy. But that was only surface, and more importantly, completely unattainable. What I really fell in love with was the ability to craft a world born of grotesque truth, beautiful exaggeration, and a maniacal dedication to erasing the line between the two. Thompson wrote social commentary like Stephen King writes a haunted house story; but when dealing with the wasteland of American culture, the reader can never run out of the haunted house.

This is what Thompson brought to the table. He breathed life into his words by murdering every single rule of journalism (and human decency) along the way. He showed generations of writers what gold exists at the end of that rainbow, should you choose to relinquish your soul to get there. And that’s why we’ll always love him.

Unfortunately, The Rum Diary commits the greatest sin one can perpetrate against the memory of Thompson: It doesn’t go far enough. And for a man (and a story) born of extremes, boredom is an unfair punishment.

The Rum Diary follows Paul Kemp (Johnny Depp), a New York writer who tends to avoid alcohol, when he can help himself. Which is rarely. In the late 1950’s, Kemp takes a position with The Daily News, a corrupt Puerto Rican publication that specializes in propaganda and fluff pieces. Paired with photographer Bob Sala (Michael Rispoli) and religion correspondent Modberg (a daft wreck of humanity portrayed gloriously by Giovanni Ribisi), Kemp is immersed into a city over-running with vices he cannot avoid. Fate places him on a collision course with corrupt business leader Sanderson (Aaron Eckhart) and his hyper-sexualized fiancée Chenault (Amber Heard). Sanderson hires Kemp to help sell the population on a venture that will destroy thousands of lives, but Kemp finds himself under attack by nearly everyone he meets, and uncertain who to trust.

The film is written and directed by Bruce Robinson, who made Withnail and I. Clearly the right guy to handle a cinematic adaptation of Hunter S. Thompson. But Robinson opts to coast through so much of the film, you’ll find yourself wondering what the point is. And there isn’t one. You may expect from the subject matter that this isn’t a happy ending kind of production, but it doesn’t build or culminate towards anything. There’s a feeling we’ll be given the anti-epiphany treatment, but if you choose that route, you still have to make it mean something. What we get instead is a film far too long (120 minutes) to not take you anywhere or offer a payoff worthy of its set-up and promise.

There’s little else to take joy in. The beautiful setting of Puerto Rico is mostly observed from B-roll footage of the island or helicopter shots of cars driving. There are a number of socially relevant messages the film tries to hit on, but never lingers long enough to full explore. But most disappointing is the acting. Following Kemp’s story of pursuing a paycheck, you can also glimpse the same intent in the eyes of the cast. Depp (a proven master of Thompson recreation) walks an annoying line between performing as the eccentric, embittered journalist, or creating a new character for Kemp. Unfortunately, this character is some bland cipher. The two versions of the character have different energies and almost completely separate voices, that Depp sometimes switches between in a single scene. It’s the glorious hope for a return to form consistently dashed by his desire to do something new, seemingly for the sake of doing something new.

Aaron Eckhart also winds up recalling a former character: the enigmatic Nick Naylor from Thank You For Smoking. During a monologue explaining PR and spin to Kemp, he’s almost recreating sections of Thank You For Smoking line-by-line, as evidenced in pauses and facial reactions. Heard brings little to the talent pool, either. For a film shot in 2009, she might’ve had a breakout, had it been released in the same year. Now, nearly in 2012 and recovering from The Playboy Club, we’ve seen her play this same character too many times. Arguably the best performance in the group comes from Rispoli, who has more lines than anyone else in the film by a factor of three. Again unfortunate that so much of this is wasted on exposition. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang showed how a partner scenario can perfectly blend the instructional nature of the native with the questioning nature of the foreigner. Here, the native just obligatorily delves into the nature and history of all that we see, usually while Depp watches blankly from behind his sunglasses.

The film could have better been branded as "Hunter S. Thompson Begins", since around the mid-point we see this evolution occur. Fashion, drugs, and automobile choices begin to form that we know will later evolve into the Hunter Shitshow we all know and love. As this ramps up, we are also paid some fan service, in the form of diatribes on Richard Nixon or sudden voice over inclusions or the kind of hallucinogenic drug sequence you can’t discuss Thompson’s work without. Still, the entire experience culminates with Thompson recognizing that he’ll use his writing (and find his voice) for good by sticking it to the bastards that would oppress others. Which is fine if you have a Dark Knight to follow through on the promise of justice. What we have instead is Fear and Loathing, which shows the man consumed by his own fuel and desperately trying to navigate the human experience. We’re deprived the second act which shows how important Thompson was to the world, to social change, and to journalism. Which is tragic, since it rebrands both films as less meaningful than they should be.

For a passion project, it just seems like no one brought any passion. Hunter S. Thompson was an important force in the development of America, not only then, but now. However, he didn’t live in this world. He made his own, and he watched us from there. If you aren’t going to take us into the cartoon perversion he invented, then follow something else, because you aren’t doing him or his ideas justice. Use the same actors and enthusiasm to give us a biopic on Edward R Murrow instead. And least that’s something we haven’t seen before.