An odd mashup of Lifetime movie and travel vlog, the latest Road House tries to steer itself in a people-pleasing direction.
The Road House – so named by its owner, who also meta-named his watercraft, The Boat, is in a pickle. You see, the violence-plagued saloon’s going through bouncers like Italy does prime ministers.
The solution? Spending 20k in a month (!) on a bouncer/consultant. No wonder this bar is in trouble.
Anyway, the dump’s proprietor, Frankie visits an off-grid cage fight, approaching a sloth-eyed ex UFC fighter, Dalton (Jake Gyllenhaal), who’s proven his bad-ass bona fides by making another fighter (graffiti-faced rapper Post Malone), quit BEFORE the bell. This reviewer has heard of fighters ducking opponents to artificially inflate their records and “no mas” quitting on their stool mid-fight…However, waving the white flag after merely GLANCING across the ring? You know, because the star of Brokeback Mountain is so intimidating?
Soon, Dalton is introducing bikers and bar drunks to a special menu of knuckle sandwiches, equipped with quips – first asking, “do you have health insurance?” and the like.
You see, this Key West, Florida bar (you know, Key West, that haven of violence that’s comparable to the favelas of Brazil) attracts drunk degenerates who will throw down before even starting a tab. And a local condo maven, Brant, has the tavern – a holdout and obstacle to future development – in its sights. He’s looking to muscle in on the owner with help from lead henchman, Conor McGregor, who stupidly references his “Notorious” UFC handle in a bar fight and smartly quips about going “clubbing” with golf accouterments.
Road House is way more leisurely/casually paced and smarter and more charm-filled than the lunkhead Hallmark philosophizing we got in the first film. Plus, the doc / bouncer romance is played up in this one, to solid effect, thanks to a neat turn by Daniela Melchior (Guardians of the Galaxy/Fast X).
However, the two-hour runtime and star are debit strikes against: while McGregor, probably out of his mind from Peruvian marching powder and whatever other ahem, enhancements, is a welcome addition to the proceedings, Gyllenhaal, despite looking the part, is strangely miscast.
What’s also weird about Road House is how lush it is – seriously, the visuals of South Florida are absolutely stunning. It’s more like the Miami Vice retread in that respect. Also, instead of quintessential chicken wire bar acts like the Jeff Healey band, The Road House has zydeco, reggae, rock, blues bands gracing the stage, a metaphor for not knowing its audience, perhaps?
It’s difficult to see who this one is aimed at, but there have been bigger reboot misfires.
*** (out of 5)
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