Krystal (2017)

Krystal review by Mark McPherson - Cinema Paradiso

William H. Macy’s Krystal is a film so chaotic it never finds a firm enough footing to be either emotionally engaging or twistedly silly. Sometimes it tries to be sincere with the story an emotionally disturbed young man trying to form a romance with an older stripper. Sometimes it tries to be darkly comedic a messed up family bickering with a drugged up assassin. And sometimes it just goes completely insane with dated concepts of being a rebel and goofy hallucinations of the devil and Santa Claus. None of it works, as though the pieces of a dozen different puzzles were forced to fit together.

Macy’s tone for this dramedy is eerily reminiscent of his off-color tone for the likes of his show Shameless and that’s not a compliment. It’s the odd love story of the young adult Taylor (Nick Robinson), crippled with a heart condition that makes him unable to face tense situations. Sounds terrible, but, remember, this is supposed to be a comedy. You’ll have to keep that in mind for the reveal of Taylor’s backstory where he grew up watching a run-over dog die slowly in the street, blood and all. You may chuckle when a younger Taylor has a living nightmare of a magazine coming to life, but I was more confused about what this film was going for. It doesn’t get better.

When Taylor isn’t working at an art gallery, he’s fancying the lovely Krystal (Rosario Dawson). They meet on the beach amid one of his attacks where she rushes him to the emergency room. He doesn’t even know her name at this point, but he’s determined to fall in love with her. And, wow, does he take the wrong route. Figuring that Krystal has a love of bad boys, he slaps on some shades and a leather jacket to play a version of cool that hasn’t relevant since the 1980s. Is it the 1980s in this world? It’s bad enough watching him try to play the cartoonish vision of the hippest cat in town, but even more obnoxious when it works.

Don’t worry; he’s not the only unbelievable character here with a sitcom level of writing to their personality. Krystal has a wheelchair bound son that progressively takes a liking to Taylor, despite how awkward and gross it is that a boy his age is dating his mother. It is odd, but not odd enough as there are competing forces for weirdness in this messy script. Taylor’s parents are played as baffling caricatures, where his mom doesn’t really love her father and dad has a history of hookers and blow that makes Krystal showing up to dinner a wacky evening of secrets revealed.

Kathy Bates plays the obligatory “I’m so old” gallery boss that exists to embody the film’s goofiness with her dated reference and the somberness with her old-people illnesses. Grant Gustin is so boring as Taylor’s brother he contributes next to nothing in this story. William Fichtner plays Taylor’s doctor who feels more as though he got lost on his way to the set of Scrubs. And there’s the most random addition of Krystal’s pimp who comes looking for her. He brings with his scenes of shooting off toes, stumbling over his words, and having drug-induced hallucinations of the devil licking his face.

I’m sure somewhere in this farce Macy had something to say and not just slather a big mess of random comedy, sappy melodrama, and off-putting vulgarity on screen. But whatever it was supposed to be, it certainly isn’t here. Krystal is the type of film you watch more with a microscope than your eyes, trying to figure out the intent of a picture that never settles into anything.