It’s an island off reality. The wealthy disembark there as at Jurassic Park or Mondwest to experience strong emotions. There, it is not a question of throwing peanuts to the dinosaurs or of descending a bald pistolero, but of fully living a fantasy, as indicated by the original title, Fantasy island, or “L’Ile aux fantasmes”, sometimes translated into French by Nightmare Island, “The Nightmare Island”, which has the advantage of leaving no ambiguity on the content of the product.
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The owner, the enigmatic Mr. Roarke (Michael Peña), welcomes his guests and grants their intimate wishes. JD and Brax are there to get in touch with sculptural Californians, who are well-fitted bodybuilders; Melanie wants revenge on the girl who mobbed her in high school; Gwen wants to find the nice fiancé she dropped and Patrick to prove to his father who died gloriously in battle that he too has the stuff of heroes. Things go bad quickly. Roarke’s assistants have insane heads, blackish liquids emerge from the interstices, narcotraffickers in clown mask burst, a charred specter prowls, soldiers trudge in the jungle, a mad scientist brandishes his scalpel … Like that of Lost, the island seems to harbor a supernatural mystery, in this case a kind of magic fountain integrating a cathode ray tube.
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From a good-natured American television series (1977-1984), directed by Jeff Wadlow (Kick-Ass 2), this horrifying film is an example of a complete failure. Mediocre actors embody inept characters rehashing sentimental or psychoanalytic cliches and satisfying their vilest impulses according to a non-existent staging and in a complete narrative confusion. An ontological track emerges through the dialectic of fantasy (“Is it me who is in my fantasy or you in yours?”), But turns short immediately.
Fantasy Island, by Jeff Wadlow (United States, 2020), with Michael Peña, Maggie Q, Lucy Hale, 1h50.
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