About a rough-and-tumble bar cooler with a heart of gold hired to clean up the baddest honkytonk in a small Missouri town, 1989’s “Road House” with Patrick Swayze wasn’t exactly high art, nor did it have the most sophisticated story. Still, it did the trick in the 1980s, when punch-‘em-up fisticuffs were enough as a harmless B-movie diversion (to remember fondly, not actually rewatch and enjoy, though).
Fast-forward thirty years, however, and you’d think a “Road House” remake might have a little bit more on the bone to chew on, marinate, or just break. Guess again, as this threadbare screenplay is essentially the same story, only centered in the wild wilderness of the Florida keys and set against the backdrop of UFC Fighting, elements that don’t coax out anything substantial other than exaggerated maxims about some of the nutcases that live in that state. Moreover, it’s largely a moronic and comically anarchic film that’s seemingly a bunch of drunken, disordered music sequences and fight scenes stitched together into a barely coherent movie.
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And as directed by Doug Liman and starring Jake Gyllenhaal, it’s curious why these two A-list names (or at least, Jake) might want to remake this movie other than to place a new spin on violent, kinetic brawling sequences, but otherwise, has nothing remotely new or exciting to offer.
“Road House” features the same plot, essentially with minor embellishments. A drifter who makes money by betting on himself in illegal street fights, Gyllenhaal stars as Dalton, an ex-UFC fighter with a dark past (naturally, of course).
After getting knifed in the side but barely flinching (is this a superhero movie or a film about regular humans who are bouncers?), he is recruited by bar owner Frankie (Jessica Williams) to protect her raucous bar in the keys where bands play boisterous blues, soul, and zydeco behind chicken wire while being mercilessly pelted by beer bottles from the nutty locals. Dalton initially declines the offer, but after a half-hearted suicide attempt with a train that’s laughed off (What?? How do you just brush that off? The film does), he agrees and buys a one-way ticket to the keys.
From there, we learn that the snarky, cocksure Dalton is not only good at fighting but disarming people and breaking specific bones with calculated precision, often telegraphing to the victim in hyper-specific detail about what they’re about to suffer if they don’t back down (they usually don’t, much to their chagrin).
After a few early fights, including the slap scene in the trailer, which is apparently supposed to be some comedic showstopper with JD Pardo and Joaquim de Almeida, that’s kind of uneventfully dumb (“Before we start [fighting], do you have health insurance?”), the spartan plot is revealed. These thugs are the goons of Ben Brandt (a wildly keyed-up and hysterical Billy Magnussen, not in a good way), the rich asshole of the movie who wants Frankie’s bar so he can tear it down and make millions on some resort scheme. But pulling the strings behind the scenes, impatient with his incompetent son, is his imprisoned father (briefly heard, but never seen), a former Florida tycoon who still manages operations behind bars. Frustrated with how Ben hasn’t been able to solve the roadhouse dilemma, he calls in his hired gun, Knox (UFC Fighter Conor McGregor), an unmanageable, unhinged, and obnoxious lunatic who is akin to a stupid, rabid dog with an affinity for utter bedlam.
His mission: f*ck shit up, destroy or kill Dalton, and essentially burn the roadhouse to the ground (and credit McGregor for playing an unbearable lout incredibly well, and perhaps far too convincingly). From there, “Road House” is nothing but mayhem and visceral and bloody, but otherwise completely empty and meaningless fights—a good reminder that a great director and a captivating actor are still nothing without a good screenplay.
As written by Anthony Bagarozzi and Charles Mondry, or what was used of it—the entire film feels like a clammy riff of improv that Liman and Gyllenhaal made up on the spot— it’s largely laughable. Gyllenhaal has two notes in the movie: charmingly unflappable, nothing phases him, not even the violence can usually effortlessly dance around, or the “when you finally get him angry,” cliché, oh boy, then he’s really angry with no off switch.
This latter point leans into the film’s one element of human concern: mild regret and consequence. Gyllenhaal’s past haunts him—a fight gone wrong, it’s not hard to guess what happened— and his only worry is that he’ll be so triggered and provoked that he once again won’t be able to stop (briefly intriguing, this idea goes nowhere substantial).
Daniela Melchior co-stars as a local nurse/love interest who patches up the brutes that Dalton throttles, and Joaquim de Almeida stars as her father, a local corrupt law enforcement agent who is in cahoots with the Brandt family. There’s also a paper-thin subplot with a little girl, the book store her father owns, their hard times, and the kindness that she pays Dalton that he eventually recompenses in the end, but it’s just a slight, tacked-on element to leave the audience knowing the bouncer has that aforementioned heart of gold underneath all his rock-hard chiseled abs.
Liman’s reputation as a mercurial and haphazard filmmaker precedes him, and “Road House” feels like a living, breathing extension of a disorganized, frenzied, sweaty individual running around with a camera on his shoulder, trying to capture a bunch of shots and patch a movie together.
The filmmaker’s go-to move appears to be the explosive, surprise attack out of nowhere. Whether it’s McGregor dropkicking seemingly everyone in a scene into next Wednesday with vicious aplomb or a speed boat launching out of the water on top of some poor unsuspecting straw cabana, “Road House” is adept at creating a disarming cinematic assault. But without even the most basic effort put into the story or characterization to anchor the dynamic battering of bodies, the entire affair feels completely soulless and throwaway.
About the faintest trace of a weird compliment you can give the movie is that during some of its wide-angle lensed scenes—which the movie employs injudiciously— it sometimes takes on the air of “What if Terrence Malick made an action movie in Florida?” borrowing a little bit of Michael Mann’s balmy night vision photography too.
At an overlong two hours, “Road House” overstays its welcome, its last act of physical pandemonium just a collection of fiercely choreographed fight scenes, too ridiculous and ADD-riddled to be appreciated for the few times the camera move and the brutal blow work in fierce concert. Worse, “Road House” is really self-satisfied with itself in a way that’s unearned and off-putting—it has a cocky arrogance that Gyllenhaal seems to inhabit, as if all the ripped muscles cut off proper oxygen circulation to the brain. But it’s all largely an ugly, vulgar, vacuous time that’s disposable and never as amusing as it clearly thinks it is. “No one ever wins a fight,” Dalton says at one point, dropping the film’s only pearl of wisdom. And for sure, this loser taps out early and never recovers. [D+]