Road House Review: Gyllenhaal and McGregor Rumble in Insane Remake

Ah yes, the zeitgeist of late 20th century American machismo cinema – a sweat-stained scion personified by one Patrick Swayze in the 1989 cult classic Road House. As the philosopher-pugilist Dalton, Swayze etched his name amongst the vinyl-clad titans of the age. Now, over three decades later, director Doug Liman has endeavored to resurrect this fabled talespinner of bar room bravura.

The 2023 iteration sees Jake Gyllenhaal inhabiting the road-worn boots of the eponymous “cooler” – a former UFC fighter whose tumultuous past leads him to the sun-drenched wilds of the Florida Keys, where he is employed to restore order to a rustic watering hole besieged by narcobillionaire land developers and their roving gulches of ne’er-do-well enforcers.

The Wayward Fist’s Saga

Our antihero Dalton, the tormented former champion played with brooding charisma by Gyllenhaal, is first glimpsed plying his trade in the dingy underbelly of underground fight clubs. A chance encounter with the beleaguered owner of a Florida roadhouse, Frankie (a wry Jessica Williams), sets him on a path of violent reckoning.

Frankie’s seaside establishment – whimsically dubbed “The Road House” – has fallen under siege by all manner of scoundrels. From swaggering land baron Ben Brandt (a delightfully punchable Billy Magnussen) to his cadre of loutish biker goons led by the aptly named Dell, the threats are relentless. With the promise of \$5,000 weekly and a chance to slake his soul’s angst, Dalton signs on as The Road House’s unlikely savior.

What ensues is a taut, loose reimagining of the original’s barroom brawler narrative. Liman’s vision retains the overarching premise – the honorable outsider restoring order amidst a maelstrom of unbridled machismo. However, the 2023 model is unshackled from the Midwest confines of its predecessor, instead transporting viewers to the sunbaked and seedy carnival of the Florida Keys.

The enmity escalates with the arrival of Brandt’s unhinged enforcer Knox, portrayed with a captivating mania by real-life MMA legend Conor McGregor. Between the two titans’ inevitable clashes lie ample detours into pastures of excess – raucous bacchanals, automotive demolition derbies, and an unexpectedly prominent role for the islands’ native crocodilian population.

Helmed by a Madman

Doug Liman’s directorial stamp on Road House is as indelible as the bruises adorning his protagonist’s knuckles. From the outset, he establishes a tone of slaphappy delirium – part winking ode to the hyper-masculine action romps of yore, part unshackled explosion of modern, deliriously over-the-top ultraviolence.

The pacing is relentless, mirroring Dalton’s own single-minded pursuit of carnage. Yet Liman leavens the breathless momentum with momentary oases of humor and character-building interludes. We’re swiftly invested in this lummox’s journey from PTSD-afflicted recluse to folkloric bar-room avenger.

Cinematographer Markus Förderer’s camerawork is equally unrestrained, ranging from musically choreographed facial fracas to sweeping vistas that drink in the Florida isles’ zesty splendor. The real stars, however, are the fight sequences – bruising melees that revel in human momentum, bone-crushing sound design, and feats of stunt artistry worthy of Stallone’s‌ bloodiest ‌endeavors.

When Gyllenhaal and McGregor ultimately lock horns, Liman brings the madcap maelstrom to a fever pitch. The pair’s duel escalates from grounded pugilism to auto-erotic demolition to full-fledged naval warfare with the audacious glee of a child smashing toy cars together. It’s pure, primal, id-driven spectacle – and all the more invigorating for it.

Sauce for the Pugilistic Goose

The script, penned by the duo of Anthony Bagarozzi and Charles Mondry, is a bifurcated beast – part hardboiled character study, part freewheeling splatterpunk romp. On the more cerebral side, their dialogue crackles with hard-bitten authenticity when sketching Dalton’s fractured psyche and the harsh socioeconomic divides cleaving the Keys’ sundry populaces.

However, the scribes appear to delight most when indulging in the language of hyperviolence. Dalton’s trademark taunts (“You’re going to need an anesthesiologist”) give way to profanely poetic arias extolling mangled extremities. The villains, too, rise to the occasion with a repertoire of cantankerous Mafioso menace.

It’s pulpy phrasing par excellence, reveling in the absurdity of watching grown men beat each other senseless over zoning permits and boozy fiefdoms. An odd tonal duality to be sure, but one that ultimately coheres under the blockbuster bravado Liman and his leading man bring to the endeavor.

Thespian Pugilists

At the bruised heart of Road House beats Jake Gyllenhaal’s haunted turn as the enigmatic Dalton. The role calls for the leading man to seamlessly oscillate between emotional extremes – the hollow-eyed spectre wrestling with inner demons, the steely-eyed force of controlled brutality, the disarmingly goofy quipsmith reveling in his own mythic aura.

Gyllenhaal traverses these tonal plateaus with a master’s delicacy. His Dalton is a coiled viper, physicality hinting at unseen trauma and propensity for violence simmering ever beneath that All-American visage. Yet our antihero’s frequent bouts of bemused affability, and flashes of hard-won wisdom, render him startlingly human. It’s a performance of remarkable nuance and commitment from an actor operating at his considerable peak.

Opposite Gyllenhaal’s furrowed brow gravitas stands Conor McGregor as the id-fueled force of nature Knox. The MMA supernova turned thespian all but devours the scenery in scenes of manic, teeth-gnashing menace. There’s an untamed ferocity to McGregor’s snarling line deliveries and gratuitously shirtless strutting that both delights and unsettles. One can’t decide whether to run screaming or buy the lunatic a drink. It’s a masterclass in unhinged screen villainy.

The supporting cast, too, rises to meet their co-stars’ level of intensity. As the embattled bar owner Frankie, Jessica Williams imbues her beleaguered everywoman with a core of raw determination and droll wit. Daniela Melchior shines as Dalton’s unlikely romantic foil, all caramel charisma papered over nerves of sun-bronzed steel.

Even smaller roles, from Lukas Gage’s awestruck acolyte to Billy Magnussen’s buffoonish mobster princelingl, crackle with idiosyncratic flair. In Liman’s circus of machismo, every soul – however fleeting their screentime – seems to be having the time of their brutish lives.

Musings of the Masculine

Beneath its neon-blazoned bacchanalia of shattered bones and pulverized drywall, Road House proffers a slyly meta-textual commentary on the very machismo idolatry it gleefully indulges. Dalton, that brooding archetype of male formidability, is ultimately revealed to be a fractured soul – a prize fighter turned trauma spectre fleeing the excesses of his own violent id.

The scuffles escalate from parking lot tussles to straight-up vehicular warfare, each salvo upping the hyperbolic ante on the time-honored tradition of men asserting dominance through mutually assured pummeling. Even the Florida isle setting, all luminous waters and sun-kissed debauchery, conjures the adolescent power fantasies that fueled many a brain-addled youth’s first stirrings of toxic masculinity.

Yet for all the flexed pectorals and veiny snarls, Liman’s rowdy romp posits that the true manifestation of fortitude lies not in bloody dominion, but in transcending one’s most primal impulses towards wonton ruination. Poignantly, it’s Dalton’s penchant for moralizing and capacity for mercy that allows him to survive the onslaught of sociopathic machismo personified by McGregor’s unrelenting sadist.

An unexpectedly thoughtful undercurrent to all the slo-mo haymakers, no? Such thematic nuance, however, is ultimately subsumed by the sheer giddy bombast of the piece. Like some long-buried relic from Stallone’s narcissistic ’80s heyday, this Road House revels in id-driven appetites unleashed – a roller-coaster of haymakered catharsis both thrilling and, perhaps appropriately, utterly exhausting.

Final Thoughts

How, then, does Liman’s delirious opus measure against its forebear and the broader canon of regressively masculine art it both celebrates and subtly subverts? In realizing a more audacious, bigger-louder-crazier vision of punchfisted anarchy, this contemporary Road House absolutely obliterates its predecessor’s cult cachet.

Where the original Swayze vehicle unspooled with a relatively grounded (if delightfully hammy) self-seriousness, the 2023 model tears the c‌amp‌y wheels off the wagon within its opening frames. Comparisons to the patron saints of ’80s ultraviolence like First Blood, They Live, and RoboCop are perhaps more apt – outsized, battering ram opuses that scarcely allow audiences a moment’s respite from the full-throttle mayhem.

In embracing its own gonzo excess so wholeheartedly, Liman’s maximalist blow-’em-up attains a giddy, almost transcendent state of delirious adrenaline achievement. Every suplexed henchman, every slow-motion artery geyser hurls the insanity factor into the stratosphere until the entire deranged bacchanalia becomes a sort of warped experiential art piece.

For the thrill-seeking connoisseur of the finest cinematic chaos, Road House is nothing less than an adrenaline-soaked sermon bellowed from the highest pulpit of big, bombastic, “they-don’t-make-’em-like-that-anymore” showmanship.  For the more discerning cinephile, however, its funhouse mirror reflection of bromatic ultraviolence may ultimately prove too chaotic and self-indulgent to appreciate beyond a supersonic sugar rush.

The choice, dear masochists, is yours – to partake in the orgiastic feast of fists laid before you, or to pass sated on Liman’s orgy of pugilistic id-venting. Just know that whether extolled or reviled, no discussion of the year’s most anarchic spectacles will be complete without due reverence paid to Doug Liman’s unbound, gloriously deranged ode to Peak Bro Cinema.

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