The Rum Diary is a movie full of missed moments, seemingly at times of ranting to its audience. At the same time, this film falls prey to the same devices that sunk Gilliam’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. In both films, Depp channels the journalist alter egos of Thompson, but in The Rum Diary, the poignancy around which it dances is often overshadowed by the inconceivable need to try to echo the Hunter S. Thompson of Fear and Loathing lore.
Each statement expelled in the ink and anger of Thompson’s voice is lost to gimmicks of inanity and a random scene of hallucination. The slightly worn paths within the narrative that indict American journalism, imperialism, racism, and inhumanity and diluted to plot points that blaspheme the voice of its original author. Funny moments exist in the novel, but they are enveloped in biting, searing satire that accuses the human race of being the only creatures that believe in God, but have no heart. This line – or a variation of it – is mentioned within the film, but it feels lost in a shuffle of an arms race for various audience demographics: Thompson fans, Depp fans, Fear and Loathing fans, and those looking for comedy.
A large part of The Rum Diary surrounds the “discretion” required in journalism and newspaper publishing. A publication runs on advertisement, so news must be carefully sifted before it reaches the public. Today, this is not a unique indictment, but when the twenty-three year old Thompson began penning his novel, this disheartening blow to impartiality fueled his desire put the “bastards in America” on warning.
The movie touches this theme but is often leaves it behind in favor of Moberg (Giovani Ribisi) drunkenly blaring Hitler speeches on his turntable and imbibing on 457 proof alcohol. This trope’s gentle handling creates an amazing irony in the simple production of the film. By eliding a number of the themes that drove the book, the film is becoming what Thompson railed against: a piece that tries to pander to the masses in order to generate as much revenue as possible. The film itself did not do well at the box office, but this is not for lack of trying. Months before its release, the film was hyped as a story from the mind of Hunter S. Thompson, the man whose deranged persona created Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Even in the advertising, the film itself is of less importance than its inception in the mind of a caricaturized author.
Strangely enough, the most disturbing moments in this film are the lame attempts made at the love connection between Paul Kemp (Depp) and Chenault (Amber Heard). Within the novel, the connection, the lust, and the anxiety are palatable; within the film, brief moments of interaction are intended to create genuine endearment and attraction, but this conceit falls short on every occasion. When Kemp tries to rescue her from the Puerto Rican club, her fate is obfuscated in favor of Sanderson’s (Eckhardt’s) anger toward Kemp. When Kemp and Chenault finally connect intimately, it is unbelievable and perfunctory. When she leaves Kemp a Dear John letter, his disappointment is interrupted by Lotterman’s (Richard Jenkins’) treachery and the half-assed plan that’s hatched for revenge.
The book is about lust, integrity, identity, and out often-inhuman treatment of each, but the film is a mishmash of ideas that tries brutally hard to connect with an audience by feeding off Depp’s uncanny capturing of Thompson’s mannerisms and cadence.
