Nicolas Cage has become a true specialist at making movies entertaining for all the wrong reasons. He's an actor for whom the question 'what was he thinking when he read the script?' has become almost completely redundant.
This (very) sub-Tarantino tale about a collection of gangsters, hookers, hitmen (and women) and other ne're-do-wells floating in and around a run-down hotel in Bogotá, connected in ways that become coherent in an increasingly incoherent manner, did not get made because anyone enjoyed a read through of the script.
At times it sounds like they are all reciting Internet memes at each other. One three-way scene in a police van features a few lines in Spanish seemingly only in order to enhance the stuttering incomprehensibility of it all.
The high point (as such) comes when Cage's hotel owner come soul-scared assassin briefly shifts, not so effortlessly, from his default of wounded quiescence into a full emote.