“Grand Isle” is a swampy Southern Gothic misfire where even Category 5 hurricane-level scenery-chewing can’t save a waterlogged thriller.
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ABOUT THIS SERIES (CLICK TO EXPAND)
Kelly and Stephanie go head-to-head to debate the merits of EVERY SINGLE MOVIE in the vast repertoire of Nicolas Cage. Each week, we cover two films. For the first film, we let the random number generator pick a film from Cage’s catalog. Then, we put a pair of movies up for a vote for our weekly People’s Pick. We’ll share our overall impressions of each film and rank the Cage factor on a scale of Rat in the Cage (totally avoidable) to Cautious Cage (non-essential but maybe worth watching) to Cage Fighter (absolutely essential viewing).
IN THIS CORNER: KELLY MINTZER
The Lowdown
There’s a unique sort of frustration that comes alongside a good idea that’s executed poorly. The squandered potential sits more bitterly on the tongue than something doomed from the start. Unfortunately, that’s what we’re looking at with Grand Isle, a movie that was made—of that I am certain, promoted (maybe) and promptly forgotten.
Never heard of it? Don’t worry, no one has. And there’s a reason; despite a solid central premise and some decisions that should be bonkers enough to make it fun, the movie and its 72-hour run-time are aggressively bland. Dull. Wasted.
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So what is this mess of a movie?
The core idea—a handyman, desperate for a little scratch, gets stranded at an unhinged couple’s home during a hurricane—is pretty great, actually. In its purest form, we’re dealing with a really clever set-up ripe for discomfort and tension.
Nature has conspired to keep our (lamentably boring and relatively shitty) hero stuck in a house with strangers. There’s no safe way to escape until the storm has passed. This would be an uncomfortable scenario even if the couple weren’t a pair of fucking weirdos, and make no mistake, fucking weirdos they are.
Additionally, Grand Isle has chosen its influences well. The overarching sense is of a Raymond Carver story filtered through a Tennessee Williams lens, with just enough Faulkner to put some goth on that thang. How do you fumble that combination?
You start by making the couple, at the core, nothing but cartoons. The influences mentioned—Carver, Williams, Faulkner—excelled because their venomous valentines were populated by broken but sympathetic characters. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof doesn’t work if you don’t like Maggie the cat.
Nicolas Cage and his wife are… confusing? Unpleasant, to be certain, but there’s no point where you feel anything for them. There’s no empathy or sense of tragedy behind this childless couple, who apparently want kids despite not showing particular parental inclinations.
Spoiler alert, and who cares because let’s be damn honest here, you’re not watching this garbage anyway; the movie takes a Don’t Breathe turn in the last act (and yeah, while I was attempting to survive this IMPOSSIBLY long movie, I did take the time to check when both films were made; Don’t Breathe precedes Grand Isle, and I would truly eat my hat if it’s not a stone cold rip off).
While the old man in Don’t Breathe is undeniably a villain, that movie is smart enough to put some poisoned logic to his actions, enough so that you can ALMOST understand his actions and feel bad for him.
If Grand Isle were a braver and less confusing movie, it would have made the duo kind and sympathetic, so when the reveal comes, it’s a gut punch.
Instead, Nic Cage and wife spend the evening Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf-ing (yeah, I made it a verb. I don’t give a fuck) at each other and making the shitty hero uncomfortable. And that, too, is a problem; the absolutely nothing burger protagonist mostly just seems vaguely inconvenienced by everything from the woman seducing him (and oh, what a fight he doesn’t put up, having had to endure the unspeakable tragedy of keeping his dick dry for 10 minutes while his young, postpartum wife works to regain her sex drive) to Nic Cage offering him a sack of money to cyanide the lady of the house to death.
Maybe some of the film’s considerable missteps could be forgivable if there was one likable character, an audience surrogate. But everyone sucks in this.
Throw in some absolutely incomprehensible speeches about the American military (Nope, it doesn’t fit in this movie. Do not fool yourself into thinking this movie has hidden depth. It thinks it does, but it’s wrong), some of the worst Southern accents you’ve ever heard, and oh yeah, Kelsey Grammar for some reason and you’ve got a sure-fire recipe for disaster.
But here’s the thing: disasters can be fun to watch. This isn’t.
It is, somehow, boring, a word I don’t throw around lightly. Wikipedia tells me Grand Isle is 97 minutes long, but Wikipedia is a liar. Grand Isle is unending.
I started watching it before I was born, and I will still be watching it after we’ve all died. It is a cosmic punishment for a crime I don’t remember committing. Every time I paused it to see how much time was left, there was more.
It is not fun. It is not good. It is not clever.
The Cage Factor:
It feels like I probably don’t even need to say this, but Rat in a Cage. Rarely has anything felt more like an obligation or a bet lost. This was Nic Cage banking some money for the taxes on the LaLaurie House. He doesn’t even go big enough for it to be fun. In a rare moment for Mr. Cage, he just seems sleepy throughout the 900-hour run-time.
RAT IN A CAGE (Don’t watch this movie. Please. Don’t make anyone you love watch this movie. Save it for your enemies.)
AND IN THIS CORNER: STEPHANIE MALONE
The Lowdown
This 2019 Southern gothic neo-noir serves up a bowl of lumpy cinematic gumbo that proves even the spiciest ingredients can make for an unpalatable meal.
Picture, if you will, a decaying Louisiana mansion where an unhinged ex-marine (Cage) and his sultry wife (KaDee Strickland) trap a young handyman (Luke Benward) during a hurricane. What follows is a night of poorly mixed cocktails — both literally and metaphorically — featuring equal parts murder plots, sexual tension, and whatever accent Kelsey Grammer thought would work for his detective character. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
Cage, our beloved patron saint of cinematic chaos, delivers his lines like a man who’s been marinating in bourbon and paranoia for decades.
Yet somehow, in a twist worthy of M. Night Shyamalan, he gets outshone in the ham department by Grammer, whose Bayou accent is so thick you’d need a chainsaw to cut through it. It’s as if Frasier Crane suffered a head injury and woke up thinking he was in True Detective.
Strickland, as the femme fatale Fancy (yes, that’s really her name), takes candlelit baths while listening to Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit” — because nothing says seduction like a song about lynching. She gives the role her all, sashaying through scenes with enough heat to rival the Louisiana humidity, making us almost believe that anyone would risk death by a jealous husband for a tryst.
The plot, much like a drunk uncle at a family reunion, stumbles around aimlessly before causing a scene in the final act.
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Director Stephen S. Campanelli (a veteran cameraman who’s worked with Clint Eastwood) gives the material ample atmosphere. It has the makings of a sexy and suspenseful crime thriller. But a convoluted story, weak script, inconsistent pacing, and tonal inconsistency make this a chore to watch rather than a deviously off-kilter B-movie romp.
The film combines elements of psychological thriller, crime drama, and erotic tension. But, rather than skillfully mixing those ingredients to create a satisfying dish of disparate flavors, it’s all just thrown in haphazardly and never really blends to create anything remotely appetizing.
Despite the dismal reviews, I had high hopes for this film. I wasn’t expecting Citizen Kane, mind you. But it had all the makings of a guilty pleasure, not the least of which is Nicolas Cage in a top-billed role where he’s actually a meaty part of the film and not just an underutilized side dish.
It takes quite some time to get to the payoff, and it’s not worth the patience it takes to get there, lacking enough bang for the buildup. Most of its actual plot and action is crammed into its final act, and the delivery feels rushed and silly rather than truly scintillating.
Cage delivers an on-the-nose rant about this country’s forgotten and discarded vets with sincerity, but it’s an important message that belongs in a much better film. Here it feels shoe-horned and tonally disconnected from the rest of the film. It also doesn’t help to try to make such an unhinged character the voice of reason; it cheapens what is actually a profoundly serious commentary.
Grand Isle wants to be a sexy, suspenseful thriller but ends up more like a community theater production of Body Heat, where someone spiked the sweet tea with bath salts. It’s not quite bad enough to be good, not good enough to be watchable, and not Cage enough to be a cult classic.
The film’s 9% Rotten Tomatoes critic score feels generous, though the 41% audience rating suggests some viewers found enough guilty pleasure to justify the runtime. Clearly, that niche audience doesn’t include me or my cohort, Kelly.
This film could have leaned into its nuttiness and delivered some “so bad it’s good” charm. Instead, it’s mostly dull and uninspired, and I checked the runtime more than a few times to see how much more I had to endure.
That’s saying a hell of a lot when Mr. Cage is onscreen for most of that runtime.
The Cage Factor:
Cage delivers a quintessentially unhinged performance as Walter, a deranged and unpredictable character. His screen presence dominates the film, and his manic energy adds a lot of entertainment value. Sadly, he doesn’t manage to make his customary nutjob shtick sufficiently entertaining to compensate for the hoary and contrived plot mechanics.
While he leans into his wild, offbeat style, the role doesn’t come close to ranking among his best, most memorable, or even most unhinged performances. He rants about forgotten veterans with the sincerity of a man who’s just discovered conspiracy theories, but even his signature brand of crazy can’t save this waterlogged thriller.
For Cage fans who appreciate his eccentric roles, this is a performance worth watching. Sadly, it finds itself in a film that’s just not.
RAT IN THE CAGE (Like a forgotten pot of gumbo left on the stove too long, Grand Isle reduces down to a thick, messy sludge that not even the most devoted Cage connoisseur should feel obligated to sample.)
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