There are bad movies, and then there are movies that feel like fever dreams you vaguely remember after eating three-day-old gas station sushi. Night Train to Venice is proudly in the latter category, a German-British-Italian co-production that asks the timeless cinematic question: “What if Dracula, Cabaret, and a student art film project had an orgy on a train?” Spoiler alert: the result is a cinematic derailment so catastrophic that even Hugh Grant publicly admitted it was the worst film of his career. And this is the man who starred in Nine Months.
Hugh Grant, Journalist Extraordinaire (And Walking Haircut)
Our hero is Martin Gimmle (Hugh Grant), a Scottish journalist traveling to Venice with a manuscript on Neo-Nazism. Sounds thrilling, right? Wrong. What we get instead is Hugh Grant sleepwalking through the role like he wandered onto the wrong set and was too polite to leave. He spends the movie looking perpetually hungover, staring off into the distance with the same blank bewilderment audiences feel while watching.
Grant, who at this time had the floppy hair and “posh stammer” thing still working in his favor, delivers lines as if he’s reading them off cue cards held by an indifferent Rottweiler. You almost feel bad for him—except then you remember he read the script and still said yes.
Malcolm McDowell: Professional Weirdo-for-Hire
Enter Malcolm McDowell as “The Stranger,” an enigmatic villain who appears to be equal parts Dracula, dream demon, and frustrated theater kid. McDowell chews scenery like he’s trying to win a Michelin star for overacting. His job is to haunt Grant’s dreams, control Neo-Nazis, and generally leer at people with the enthusiasm of a man who has long since stopped caring about subtlety.
McDowell has made a career out of elevating trash (Tank Girl, Cat People, Caligula), but here even his legendary madness can’t save the script. He’s like a shark trapped in a kiddie pool—dangerous, out of place, and deeply sad.
Gothic Vomit: Every Trope, All the Time
The movie tries desperately to be Gothic in the most heavy-handed way possible. We’ve got:
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A woman and child in white, floating around like rejected ghosts from a fabric softener commercial.
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Rottweilers, because nothing says “deep European dread” like barking dogs.
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Creepy masked Venetians, who look less like sinister cultists and more like people late for a Mardi Gras parade.
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Random Commedia dell’arte figures, because apparently someone in production thought, “What this movie really needs is Harlequin cosplay.”
The result isn’t spooky or even atmospheric. It’s like a Gothic Mad Libs written by a drunk exchange student: “Insert Rottweiler here, add sinister mask there, sprinkle in child ghost, and voilà, art!”
Plot? What Plot?
Calling Night Train to Venice “non-linear” is a polite way of saying it doesn’t make a lick of sense. The movie staggers from scene to scene like a drunk tourist lost in the canals. Hugh Grant loses his memory at some point, there are Neo-Nazis somewhere in the background, and a love story with Tahnee Welch (daughter of Raquel) is awkwardly stapled in.
Tahnee Welch plays Vera, a performer traveling with her daughter. She and Hugh Grant fall in love, though “love” here mostly means staring at each other blankly while the soundtrack moans ominously. Her daughter Pia (played by futureBig Brother UK contestant Rachel Rice—yes, really) mostly serves as Gothic window dressing, wandering around in white gowns like a miniature budget angel.
By the time you realize the film has circled back on itself three times and Hugh Grant still hasn’t figured out what’s happening, you stop caring.
Venice as Discount Hellscape
Venice is one of the most beautiful cities in the world, but Night Train to Venice somehow manages to make it look like a discount haunted house. Every alleyway is shot like a Scooby-Doo background loop. Every gondola ride feels like a bad Tinder date. Instead of capturing the romantic melancholy of Venice, the film just makes you want to book a trip somewhere less depressing, like Chernobyl.
Dream Logic, or Just Lazy Screenwriting?
The movie wants you to think it’s “dreamlike.” What it actually is: incoherent. Characters vanish mid-plot. Time jumps randomly. Scenes repeat with minor variations, as though the editor fell asleep on the keyboard.
At one point, McDowell’s Stranger seems to invade dreams to torment Hugh Grant, but then the same dream logic bleeds into waking life. Are we supposed to question reality? Or did the writers just give up halfway through and decide, “Eh, let’s call it Gothic surrealism”? Either way, you’re left with a headache, a sense of betrayal, and the urge to sue Venice for emotional damages.
Performances: Stiff Competition
Hugh Grant is checked out, Tahnee Welch is blandly decorative, and Rachel Rice is a child, so fine. The rest of the cast fares no better:
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Kristina Söderbaum, once known as Nazi cinema’s “ideal Aryan woman,” is dragged out of retirement to play an old crone. Because nothing says fun Gothic romp like casting a literal piece of fascist film history.
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Evelyn Opela and Robinson Reichel pop up as cardboard villains, sneering in ways that make Saturday morning cartoon bad guys look nuanced.
The only person having fun is McDowell, and even then it’s the kind of fun you’d report to HR.
Hugh Grant’s Public Apology
In 2002, Hugh Grant admitted this was the worst film he ever made. That’s saying something for a man who also starred in Did You Hear About the Morgans? Watching him in Night Train to Venice, you can practically see the realization dawning on his face: “Oh dear God, I’m never getting another job in Hollywood again.” Fortunately, Four Weddings and a Funeral came along soon after to rescue him from cinematic purgatory.
Final Thoughts: Off the Rails
Night Train to Venice is less a movie and more a practical joke on its cast. It’s incoherent, pretentious, and unintentionally hilarious. The “horror” is nonexistent, the “romance” is DOA, and the “thriller” elements are about as thrilling as watching beige paint dry in real time.
If you enjoy watching Gothic clichés strung together with the narrative logic of a bad dream, this is the film for you. If you enjoy competent cinema, avoid it like a Venetian gondola infested with killer Rottweilers.
