Bad Times at the El Royale (2018)

Bad Times at the El Royale is the kind of neon-lit, slow-burn thriller that makes you lean in closer, because every glance, every pause, every song on the jukebox feels like it’s hiding something. Drew Goddard turns a single, decaying Tahoe motel into a pressure cooker of secrets, shot with lush, slyly voyeuristic cinematography and driven by a score that hums with late-’60s menace and melancholy. The ensemble is the real hook—Jeff Bridges brings bruised humanity, Cynthia Erivo radiates star power, and Lewis Pullman gives the story its aching nerve—so even when the night turns nasty, you’re invested in the people, not just the twists. It’s not for viewers who want a tight, minimalist mystery (it’s indulgent and enjoys its detours), but if you’re in the mood for a stylish, character-forward crime drama with real atmosphere, this is a motel worth checking into.

Bad Times at the El Royale is clearly aiming for a stylish, Tarantino-adjacent chamber thriller: a neon-soaked 1969 motel, seven strangers with sins, and a slow drip of reveals that wants to feel like a juicy pulp novel coming to life. The problem is it’s in love with its own buildup—scenes stretch, the runtime starts to feel like a dare, and the writing doesn’t always earn the big “now it all explodes” turns, especially once the story pivots hard into its final act. The villain and endgame can land more like noisy escalation than satisfying payoff, which makes the whole elaborate setup feel a bit overpromised. If you’re here for tight pacing and a clean mystery-thriller spine, you may get impatient, but if you enjoy atmosphere, strong performances (Cynthia Erivo in particular), and letting a movie luxuriate in tension and character moments, it’s still an interesting, messy ride.