The Rum Diary | Film review

One would like to think that Bruce Robinson’s year-delayed adaptation of The Rum Diary took so long to reach theaters because it staggered through several drunken misadventures to get here. Set in San Juan circa 1960, the film evokes its milieu with a specificity—if not a terseness—worthy of its source’s author, Hunter S. Thompson. Written when he was 22, the semi-autobiographical Rum Diary is generally regarded as the gonzo scribe’s second novel, although he didn’t publish it until 1998. Perhaps because there’s only one drug trip, Johnny Depp dials down his Fear and Loathing mannerisms to play Paul, a Thompsonesque boozehound who arrives in Puerto Rico for a last-resort newspaper job amid significant poverty and unrest. Around him coalesces a crew of fellow outcasts: a bewigged editor (Richard Jenkins) uninterested in real news, an ex-shoe-leather hobo (shriveled, overacting Giovanni Ribisi) and a disillusioned colleague, Sala (Michael Rispoli, stealing scenes), who tries to open Paul’s eyes.

A plot of sorts develops, as idealistic Paul faces temptation to conspire with a criminal real-estate developer (Aaron Eckhart), whose attractive fiancée (Amber Heard) seems more than slightly interested in the new guy. The movie’s energy level dips whenever it deviates from this anti-Casablanca, although the episodic structure allows for several eye-catching detours, including a late-night court appearance and Paul and Sala’s attempt to drive a car without seats. Given the movie’s raffish cynicism, the 11th-hour ode to the importance of journalism doesn’t quite convince. An ideal ending would make you want to chase the film with a stiff drink.