Twenty-first century film studios have a very strict checklist as to which movies they produce. Sequels, spinoffs, crude comedies, reasonably priced horror flicks, animated fare, name/brand recognition, award hopefuls. . . all of this meaning that very few adventurous, risky projects get made anymore. Gone are the days (for the most part), when adult oriented features like Basic Instinct and Body Double graced the silver screen, or edgier family films such as Adventures in Babysitting, The Neverending Story, and Home Alone were made – whether you love them or hate them, they did not fit your prototypical mould. So, when a 2018 motion picture that is so far outside of the stratosphere gets a thirty-two million dollar budget (thank you 20th Century Fox – which may soon be snapped up by Disney. . . a worrisome acquisition for moviegoers, as the bloated studio already owns Lucasfilm, Marvel, The Muppets Studio, and Pixar), it is an exciting day for cinephiles and adventurous moviegoers. So, welcome to the El Royale.
Bad Times at the El Royale is an R rated gem written and directed by Drew Goddard (co-scribe and director of Cabin in the Woods; adaptor for the screen of The Martian), the type of dynamic thriller that resembles a sharp British crime flick (one where we do not expect everyone to survive). As twisted as it is twisty, Goddard designs the most fascinating of settings (its own character). . . a neon-glowing, mid century modern gambling den of a motel, hidden on the outskirts of Reno, a building that straddles the Nevada/California border (and has one of those tacky red lines that indicates the boundary between states).
What once was the best kept secret (the playground of celebrities like Dean Martin and Marilyn Monroe), flash forward ten years (after a murder on the premises) and this Nixon era locale is a shell of its former self – losing its gambling license (and liquor license on the Nevada side), now only one employee runs the entire facility – Miles Miller (Lewis Pullman). . . slightly dilapidated, the funky wallpaper is peeling, the carpets are stained, the lifeblood (that is the people) are nowhere to be found.
But on one ominous night, storm looming, four seemingly unconnected people find their way to the El Royale: Father Daniel Flynn (Jeff Bridges), an aging priest who claims to have just come from visiting his brother; Darlene Sweet (Cynthia Erivo) arrives with a bizarre amount of foam mattress padding; Laramie Seymour Sullivan (Jon Hamm) is a ‘slick as they come’ vacuum cleaner salesman who wants to stay in the honeymoon suite (by himself); and Emily Summerspring (Dakota Johnson) – a no nonsense quasi hippie, who, when asked to sign in, writes FUCK YOU!
With an intertitle introducing each of the rooms they are staying in, it provides us with a window into the secrets of these four individuals – flashbacks and present connections that were not originally revealed. Soon, Father Flynn is ripping up floorboards, Sweet is singing, Sullivan is looking for planted bugs in his room, and Summerspring is pulling a girl, Ruth (Cailee Spaeny) from her trunk. There is also the enigmatic Billy Lee (Chris Hemsworth – truly deserving of praise for taking a chance on such a controversial role), an alluring cultish leader who somehow fits into the sordid puzzle.
Yet, it is not only the visitors who have their share of secrets, the El Royale, managed by its bellboy, has its own seedy past and present – and murder is not to what I speak. Beware of mirrors, cameras, drugs and other mysteries, a playful spider-web pad that is not without its traps.
Constructed with massive amounts of style, Goddard fashions a world of a thousand and one vices. Utilizing long takes, shifty camerawork, fascinating music tie-ins (more on that later), and everything in-between, the mesmerizing canvas is etched with Seamus McGarvey’s dynamic cinematography – neon soaked exteriors as the rain comes down, eerie hallways filled with dark secrets, the main lobby, casino and eatery lit by fire when the power ominously goes out. . . countless examples of style to match the substance.
Loosely connected to recent features Baby Driver and Atomic Blonde, music plays an integral role. . . diegetic sound (music heard by the characters onscreen), fascinating sound design edited to the action throughout, and a killer, mostly Motown related soundtrack (excluding the rock-centric Deep Purple, you have The Mamas and The Papas, Edwin Starr, Tommy Roe, Four Tops, The Isley Brothers, The Box Tops, Franki Valli, while the use of the song “You Can’t Hurry Love” aptly demonstrates the genius of how music is integrated with plot), adds another deranged level to the piece.
A neo-noir that pulls from numerous sources while finding its own unique ground, Bad Times at the El Royale is a two hour, twenty-one minute divisive thrill ride that may test certain viewers – as runtimes continue to drop for the cellphone hooked generation. Though some may take issue with how Goddard concludes the picture, the film as a whole is a risky gamble for an up and coming filmmaker that, for the most part, pays off. . . just to disclose, the plot deals with topics such as murder, smut, drugs, sex with minors and numerous other contentious threads – plus, it is not without social commentary (today’s and the 1970s). So, don’t throw this film on the fire, grab a seat and enjoy the show.
This is one of those movies that keeps you on the edge and guessing from beginning to end. Not your usual Hollywood fare. I loved this movie in spite of the violence. Would watch it again and that’s saying something.