In the Flesh: Road House (2024)

I like watching men beat the ever-loving shit out of each other. I like oddball pugilists and seedy Florida scenery. I like Jake Gyllenhaal! Doug Liman’s Road House, a remake of the belovedly gonzo and meat-headed 1989 Patrick Swayze classic, is a likable movie, big and muscular and just the right amount of weird. The bizarre fisheye and first-person shots of its propulsive action scenes really put you into the violence, and the shaky cam stuff is among the best I’ve seen. It’s not trying to be Rowdy Harrington’s inimitable original, the kind of stupendously moronic masterpiece no amount of intentional effort can produce, but there’s obvious affection and respect for its predecessor in Liman’s iteration of the classic story of like eleven people getting murdered in cold blood because Ben Gazzara wants to build a JCPenney outlet. There’s just enough weirdness in its DNA between the crocodile that eats one of Ben Brandt’s (Billy Magnussen) thugs and Knox (Conor McGregor) striding bowlegged and buck naked through downtown Milan before torching a tourist kiosk to prevent it from sliding into “visually enjoyable but standard action flick” territory.

Jake Gyllenhaal’s pleasant, sunny affect brings its own special sauce to the proceedings. There’s no Swayze impression here, no attempt to recapture that effortless calm. Elwood Dalton is a guy who has to be Mr. Rogers because otherwise he’s a rabid dog. The flashbacks to the MMA match in which Dalton killed his opponent and friend, Jax (Jay Hieron), are nightmarishly bright and distorted, the lens warping and bulging as Dalton practically slavers at the chance to beat Jax to death with his fists. It feels like the moment before you drop into a K-hole, a jangling, dissociative rush of euphoria that persists through the movie’s best fight scenes. The beatdown aboard Brandt’s yacht in the wake of a dynamite explosion, everyone lurching around drunkenly as the camera reels through their midst is a sterling specimen of its breed, and the two brutal throwdowns between Dalton and Knox are full of technically skilled MMA chaos and bone-snapping pleasures. The sound mixing is a little flat, the score kind of uninspired, but the film’s visual flair and fun performances make it easy to get over it.

Billy Magnussen makes a meal of Ben Brandt, an unstable criminal of the kind that has become his stock in trade. His introductory scene aboard a heaving catamaran, a quivering underling trying to shave him while the sea pitches and salt spray flies through the ship’s in-deck pools, is equal parts funny and tense as he continually cautions the hapless barber to keep his wrist loose and flexible. There’s just enough flavor sprinkled over the supporting cast of thugs and bruisers to keep things interesting, and if the score isn’t much, the brief musical interludes are enjoyable local color. The scenery is an unexpected grace note here, too. DP Henry Braham knows what he’s doing with the windswept, sun-drenched Florida Keys scenery, and the film’s night scenes are immaculately lit. It’s a pure pleasure to see something so fun and engaging made with such visual flair.