Karl Urban, James Marsden, Wentworth Miller, Eric Stonestreet and Matthias Schoenaerts are five married fat cats who share a secret, swanky sex palace for their flings. But their hush-hush hedonistic hideout is shattered when one of their conquests turns up dead in the one bed they all use. Did one of them do it? Is their sanctum sanctorum compromised? Is that place a blacklight nightmare or what?
The Loft is smug, cynical, sleazy … and reasonably entertaining. It’s the sort of disposable, high-end junk that can only belong to January — a sort of psychosexual-thriller spin on The Hangover in which members of a wolf pack turn on one another.
Erik Van Looy, a Belgian director remaking his own 2008 film, cross-cuts to so many suspicious / shocked close-ups that The Loft starts to resemble a seedy Bachelor rose ceremony. Meanwhile, composer John Frizzell tries to out-fortissimo Bernard Herrmann. And while employing flashbacks and flash-forwards, screenwriter Wesley Strick cleans out a supermarket of red herrings priced to move on their sell-by date — corrupt city councilmen, rival real estate magnates, mysterious prostitutes … and that’s before the fact that all five guys’ wives are suspects, too.
It’s too bad that the more-than-capable cast is so interchangeably bland (Urban, Miller, Marsden) or typecast (when hasn’t Schoenaerts played a coked-up, violent hothead?). Stonestreet is the exception, gleefully shedding network-sitcom niceties as a proudly profane douchebag; in one particularly piggish rant, he asserts that fake breasts be regarded as highly as dentures in the area of bodily improvement.
Even if it piles on perhaps one conspiracy too many (and takes the easier, less interesting way out on it), The Loft at least holds together cleanly in the long run. When it comes to winking trash, there are crummier pads in which to crash.