Two stars. Rated R, for strong violence, profanity, drug content and dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang
It begins with such promise.
During the first hour, I couldn’t wait to see this film a second time.
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| Traveling salesman Laramie Seymour Sullivan (Jon Hamm, left) and touring soul singer Darlene Sweet (Cynthia Erivo) are just as surprised as desk manager Miles Miller (Lewis Pullman), when their check-in procedure is interrupted by a brazen newcomer. |
Shortly thereafter, my enthusiasm began to wane. Ninety minutes in, it was obvious that one viewing would be sufficient.
By the time this interminable slog had concluded, I wanted my 141 minutes back.
Yes, it’s that long. No, the length isn’t justified. Not by any means.
I suspect writer/director Drew Goddard intended Bad Times at the El Royale to be a similarly snarky and dark-dark-darkblend of this past spring’s Hotel Artemis and Quentin Tarantino’s Hateful Eight. The preview certainly suggested as much, and Goddard’s pedigree is solid; he was the guiding hand behind 2012’s ferociously clever The Cabin in the Woods, and he cut his teeth writing and directing episodes of cult TV faves such as Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, Angel, Alias and Lost.
What could possible go wrong?
Well … a lack of self-discipline, for starters. An inability to recognize when “mischievous” veers into “tasteless.” And a failure to perceive that although his script has a great set-up and premise, the execution leaves much to be desired. By the bonkers third act, at which point the film has gone completely off the rails, one gets a sense that Goddard was hastily scribbling fresh pages as he went along.
Such a disappointment.
That said, there’s no denying the skill with which Goddard toys with us, during the ingeniously twisty first hour.
It’s January 1969: a time of momentous upheaval, as the last vestiges of the debonair, Rat Pack jazz era are buried beneath the rock ’n’ roll-fueled counter-culture revolution. Richard Nixon has just been inaugurated as the 37th president of the United States, and a new decade beckons.
But on the border between California and Nevada, the once-glorious El Royale still seems time-locked in the 1950s. The resort is cheekily built to straddle both states, with a fat red line dividing the two wings of rooms, and running right down the middle of the spacious lobby. The establishment offers warmth and sunshine to the west, and hope, opportunity — and gambling — to the east. Once upon a time, this Tahoe hot spot catered to the country’s most famous celebrities and politicians; now it’s just this shy of being a ghost.
(The El Royale is inspired by the actual Cal Neva Resort and Casino, which similarly straddled both states.)
On an ordinary sunny day, travelers Father Daniel Flynn (Jeff Bridges) and soul singer Darlene Sweet (Cynthia Erivo) simultaneously pull into the parking lot. They’re oddly wary of each other, but even more puzzled by the El Royale’s unsettling dead silence. Upon entering the lobby, they encounter traveling salesman Laramie Seymour Sullivan (Jon Hamm), who has been unable to rouse a desk clerk, bell boy, manager or anybody else.
Darlene, not inclined toward patience, is more successful; Miles Miller (Lewis Pullman), the sole remaining employee, apologetically checks them in and dutifully recites the resort’s brief and obviously oft-repeated history.
The three guests jockey for rooms. Laramie, although alone, insists on the honeymoon suite. Father Flynn also wants a particular location. Darlene tries — and fails — to be off in an isolated corner. These bewildering negotiations — everybody being just a trifle too formal — are interrupted by the explosive arrival of hippie-fied Emily Summerspring (Dakota Johnson), an extremely rude young woman with little use for anybody else.
Eventually, everybody settles into a room … at which point the fun begins.
Goddard then breaks his film into chapters, initially by room, as we eavesdrop on each occupant (a droll foreshadowing of revelations to come). Laramie is up first, his behavior upon settling into the honeymoon suite decidedly un-salesman-like. His subsequent exploration of the El Royale brings the narrative to a certain juncture, at which point Goddard pauses, begins another chapter about somebody else, and introduces fresh information — and character back-story — while also replaying previous events from this new point of view.
This isn’t a riff on Rashomon, with different people supplying different interpretations of a single event; the overall picture here remain consistent, but each new point of view supplies additional details that cheekily topple our previous assumptions and expectations. Goddard is fiendishly tricky here, his film’s arch tone deliciously supplemented by his actors’ just-slightly exaggerated performances.
By the time we realize that Emily actually is traveling with her younger sister Rose (Cailee Spaeny), we’re well and truly intrigued.
And then … well, things get messy. And sloppy. And tediously depraved. All in an increasingly not-good way. By which point, even the cast can’t hold our attention.
Until then, Hamm steals the show with his hilarious portrayal of the buttoned-down and aggressively retro Laramie. He’s polite but not sincere, laughably harmless but perhaps not. His upraised eyebrows and chatterbox mannerisms perfectly suit what the El Royale once was; at the same time an occasional edge surfaces, as with the thinly veiled prejudicial remarks he aims at Darlene.
Erivo makes her a feisty treat: a black woman fully aware of the care with which she must tread — this being 1969 — but at the same time bold enough to behave with dignity, and insist upon at least a modicum of respect. We like Darlene; whatever is about to transpire, we instinctively hope that she survives it.
Bridges is a fascinating study. Father Flynn is kind and inclusive, frequently trying to pour tolerant oil on the troubled waters of occasionally snide remarks. Bridges plays the man with a twinkle in his eye, and gives Flynn a few indulgences that raise our eyebrows. He clearly likes Darlene, and puts considerable effort into trying to make her feel less threatened.
At the same time, we can’t help noting Father Flynn’s occasional mid-sentence pauses, accompanied by blank expressions. It’s almost as if Bridges has forgotten his lines, but that can’t be it. Something else, then…
Pullman gives Miles a squirrely, off-kilter manner; his surface behavior is as deferential as his position demands, and he’s meek to the point of trying to vanish within his El Royale uniform. And yet it’s equally clear that he’s haunted by something; we get a sense that he hasn’t enjoyed a good night’s sleep in months, if not years.
Emily is all business: cocky, dismissive and determined to be left alone. Johnson nails the attitude and insolence … but, again, appearances can be deceiving. The ethereal Spaeny, her gaze always focusing on something far, far away, makes Rose an enigma.
Enter Chris Hemsworth’s Billy Lee, whom we’ve previously seen in a brief flashback (?). At which point, the story goes to hell … and so does Goddard’s film.
Some things remain taboo, even in a movie this deliberately outré, and Hemsworth’s take on a messianic Charles Manson crosses that line. These events immediately cease to be “fun,” swerving instead into vile and offensive mean-spiritedness. On top of which, Hemsworth is badly miscast, although I’ll grant he has the charisma that might seduce weak-willed followers into sipping the Kool-Aid.
But Goddard overloads Billy Lee with ludicrous fortune-cookie sermons and dialogue, which Hemsworth can’t begin to sell; his air of menace also can’t withstand a laughably ill-advised dance sequence set to a tune emanating from the lobby jukebox. Hemsworth’s entrance causes this cinematic soufflé to collapse — instantaneously — and yet we’re stuck with him, and the nasty business that follows, during an increasingly interminable third act.
Matters are no longer clever, or even interesting: merely unpleasant and malicious. And when we hit the bonkers Vietnam battlefield flashback, it becomes obvious that Goddard has taken leave of his senses.
Sheer, butt-numbing torture.
Sigh.
On the basis of this evidence, it would appear that Goddard writes best when either a) adapting existing material, as with his solid handling of Andy Weir’s The Martian; or b) allied with a smarter, more closely controlled colleague such as Joss Whedon.
Time will tell. Meanwhile, don’t waste your time with this mess.
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