The Rum Diary

Sometimes projects come to fruition on the basis of their own merits, and sometimes merely because of the name attached to them. Both the novel The Rum Diary and the Johnny Depp-produced film adaptation fall into the latter category. Though a superb gonzo journalist, Thompson’s novel lacked a target against which to rage, and therefore was somewhat meandering and aimless. Unsurprisingly, the movie also falls flat. 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. The newest hack on the Puerto Rican paper the San Juan Star, Kemps’ attempts at sobriety are hindered by low-life colleagues Sala (Michael Rispolo) and the guttural, alcoholic, Hitler-loving freakshow Moburg (a scene-stealing Giovanni Risponi). It’s not just his willpower that’s being tested. When he meets Sanderson (Aaron Eckhart, impressively slimy), he’s asked to help the crooked real-estate developer build a high-class hotel on an unspoiled island. He’s against the idea, but wants to stick around to connect with Sanderson’s girlfriend, the beautiful Chenault (Amber Heard).
What should have been an existential odyssey of 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 chickens, The Rum Diary feels cheap, relying on innuendo and pranks to get its laughs, and meandering in the interim.
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. Sadly, such instances 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 project lacks the electricity of its muses, and proves dull, lifeless and thoroughly uninspiring – three things that Hunter S. Thompson was not.