Online Only: The Rum Diary, a hazy adaptation

By Emily Nichol     10/31/11 7:00pm

Ginsberg said it best: "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness/starving hysterical naked through the streets at dawn looking for an angry fix," and so Hunter S. Thompson, author of the The Rum Diary, the book that served as the inspiration for this movie, lived :raving, cynical and relevant. HST gave birth to gonzo journalism, a fast-paced, gritty writing that places the journalist at the epicenter of the story, in search of "truth," a fix to appease the deadline, often slathered in alcohol and drugs. That all came later, post the 1959 manuscript that lay fallow until 1998, when it was finally published under the name The Rum Diary.

The book is not an autobiographical account of a 22-year-old Thompson's sojourn as a newspaper writer in Puerto Rico, but it still centers around an intrepid young journalist who has moved to Puerto Rico to work at a newspaper perilously in danger of folding.

Upon arrival in San Juan, Paul Kemp, played with quirky nonchalance by Johnny Depp (Alice in Wonderland) falls in step with the newspaper's resident hooligans, Sala, played with a roguish swarthiness by Michael Rispoli, and Moberg, a pro-Nazi drunk, whom Giovanni Ribisi plays with a convincingly squeamish slovenly shuffle. Ribisi seems eternally consigned to be an underrated actor, always playing the supporting role, (Public Enemies), though he fulfills them with aching perfection, as he does the degenerate Moberg. Depp lends a depth and soul to Kemp underneath his rum-swilling fiascos and terrible hangovers, a center of integrity and ideals that does not quite emerge in the book. Kemp photographs the ghettos and slums, attempting to make a story from them, and is shut down.

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Kemp finds himself mired in the shady dealings of Hal Sanderson, the consummate rich corporate man trying to develop an island paradise into a commercial touchstone. Aaron Eckhart, no stranger to corporate glad-handing roles (see Thank You for Smoking, The Dark Knight) does an immaculate portrayal of a slimeball: suave and always clad in crisp whites and leather boaters. Sanderson, naturally, also has the girl, a tanner, more lithe Marilyn Monroe knockoff named Chenault. She's from Connecticut, apparently, though that won't stop her from attending a carnival in St. Thomas with an upsetting end. Amber Heard, of the already cancelled Playboy Club, sways her hips and sends sultry blue-eyed, red lipped gazes towards Kemp, and he is sunk. However, her character is all dressed and painted nails, lacking in real development and depth, perhaps due to acting, or perhaps due to writing.

Bruce Robinson (Withnail and I) both writes the screenplay and directs. He took the text and played off of it, necessary to give the film the requisite story arc and fully humanize characters. The cinematography keeps the viewer reeling, as drunk as the characters, or as mentally unstable perhaps. Appropriate and well-done. The lushness of the setting provided beautiful landscape shots, specifically ones of crashing waves and sunsants. The constant jolting of the camera occasionally gave way to stunning imagery sequences, such as a cock fight. Never has a spectacle so derided been filmed so beautifully as to convey hidden depths of emotion, power, and glory.

The explanatory script-across-the-screen ending disappoints. It neatly sets Kemp and Chenault, married, up in New York, where Kemp gains fame and money. Kemp buys into the commercial dream he tried to expose with his aborted byline in San Juan. His ideals- so irked by Sanderson's developmental dealings, poof away with the pout of red lips. In favor of a juicy byline, it would appear Kemp sold his soul to the very consumerist interests he worked against. Perhaps the rum finally got to him.

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