Film Reviews

The Rum Diary

• Rating:
• Director: Bruce Robinson
• Starring: Aaron Eckhart
• Details: US / 120 mins (15A)

I risk the wrath of Hunter S. Thompson fans by saying this, but Thompson's semi-autobiographical novel The Rum Diary was not a particularly good book. Written in the 1960s but only published in 1998, it seems obvious that the meandering, aimless novel was brought to fruition not on the basis of its own merits, but because of the name attached to it– a trait shared by its film adaptation. Produced by and starring the late Thompson's friend Johnny Depp, The Rum Diary may be a tribute, a eulogy, a love letter, a vanity project – but it's not a good film.
Phoning in another tic-laden performance, Depp plays Paul Kemp, Thompson's alter-ego. A prolific drinker, Kemp struggles to stay just sober enough to keep his new job on the Puerto Rican paper, the San Juan Star. Experiencing the full spectrum of Caribbean culture, Kemp sees the shocking poverty of the locals while drinking and getting high with oddball colleagues Sala (Michael Rispolo) and the guttural, alcoholic, Hitler-loving freakshow Moburg (a scene-stealing Giovanni Risponi.) But he also gets a taste of the high life when he connects with Sanderson (Aaron Eckhart, impressively slimy), a crooked real-estate developer looking to really upset Joni Mitchell by paving over an unspoiled Paradisiacal island to build a high-class hotel. But Sanderson's plan isn't the only ethical dilemma facing Kemp – he has also fallen for Sanderson's girlfriend, the beautiful Chenault (Amber Heard.)
What should have been an existential odyssey misadventure soon disintegrates into a disjointed and hackneyed series of absurd events. Filled with endless scenes of fire-breathing, voodoo, clown cars, hangovers, riots and chicken, watching The Rum Diary feels akin to observing the dying moments of a serious session. As the film stumbles aimlessly around, looking to cheap innuendo and pranks to get its laughs, and mistaking loud music for a party atmosphere, it constantly seems mere seconds away from stealing a traffic cone and ringing its ex-girlfriend.
Like the novel, the film only ignites when Thompson's passion-fuelled insights and outrage against the Nixon administration and corrupt corporations seep their way into Kemp's internal monologue. But these moments of political flag-planting are too few and far between in a film that overstays its already lukewarm welcome for a good half-hour.
Though beautifully shot and undoubtedly well-intentioned, this misjudged misadventure will only appeal to die-hard Thompson fans. For everyone else, it will prove dull and lifeless – two words that should never be associated with its muse.

Review by Roe McDermott