In public restrooms, civilized members of society can frequently witness a horrific sight — which is perhaps the most damning indicator of the human species — in the broken toilet that nobody properly reports but, seemingly, everyone just keeps using anyway. Surely, as you smarter-than-average moviegoers read this review from your artificially freshened environments, you can recall opening that stall door and deciding, “Hey, this can totally wait until I get home.” After that initial shudder of revulsion, it slowly dawns on you, during that uncomfortable drive home, that these awful people are just crapping on top of other people’s crap. Only then do you realize that, in your haste to flee the premises, you completely neglected to inform the responsible parties of this broken toilet as well. That’s right, you just left it for the next person to discover.
Fuck you, too!
Well, at least you didn’t use the toilet and further complicate matters, right? The state of mind of those barbarians, who never even pause to contemplate the “splash factor,” is what’s at work, literally and figuratively, within College. As a coming-of-age sex gross-out comedy, College is merely a re-digested version of the genre, the crap molded from the faintly superior likes of Porky’s and National Lampoon’s Animal House. More notably, College is much like PCU but without the failed attempt at any sort of social commentary. Unfortunately, College also lacks the few bits of humor that PCU actually managed to pull off. Further, College treats its women exponentially worse than any Judd Apatow creation would ever dream of doing and proudly displays more pairs of tits than Eli Roth’s Hostel, if you can believe that. However, in a most bizarre twist of events, the most offensive aspect of College is its director, Deb Hagan, who is, by all accounts, most decidedly female. That’s right, ladies, our bathrooms also do not smell like sunlight and roses.
In terms of the requisite gross-out humor, College takes the well-travelled, scattershot approach of packing in so many consecutive jokes in the hopes that, at some point, a few of them will actually strike as humor. This tactic resembles the strategy of the average college fratboy, who firmly believes that, if he looks into the eyes of all drunk sorority pledges while solemnly stating, “Daddy must have stolen the stars from the sky to put ‘em in his little girl’s eyes,” well, fratboy is bound to get laid at least a few times within four years of college. This is, of course, a wholly adequate result for fratboy, who won’t remember these girls’ names after any measurable duration of time, just as the unwitting audience of College, won’t remember any of the film’s jokes but will be left with a virtually stained mental cache of crap. Hell, this film is even technically incompetent, as evidenced during one of the initial scenes, in which the main character, Kevin (Drake Bell, in his post-Nickelodeon era and fresh from Superhero Movie), is dumped by his fiendish girlfriend, Gina (Alona Tal). As the two ex-lovers sit and argue atop the stadium bleachers, a microphone lazily bobs in and out of the top of the frame. So much for suspending reality, as if that were even possible here.
In College, the three new dorks on campus are Kevin, Carter (Andrew Caldwell, desperately bottling the essence of John Candy), and Morris (Kevin Covais, stretching out his “American Idol” moment). The three high-school seniors, who are supposed to be touring Fairfield University’s campus and breezing though scholarship interviews, instead decide to ditch the dorm room and head to fraternity row. Through a series of circumstances, these guys end up bunking in the cellar of the university’s hardest-partying fraternity, and the sadistic fraternity president, Teague (Nick Zano), turns the trio into weekend pledges. The dorks are initially enthused and righteously proceed to score with three impossibly attractive sorority chicks, Heather (Camille Mana), Kendall (Haley Bennett), Amy (Nathalie Walker). However, the dudes quickly realize that, at the hands of Teague, the weekend shall be one of slave labor, credit card fraud, and, most significantly, many shades of homoerotic humiliation. In fact, this is quite the closeted little frat house, and when an ancillary character named Goose (Reggie Martinez) appears, it’s pretty damn obvious that there are plenty of other wingmen waiting in these hallowed halls. Not only are Kevin, Carter, and Morris are forced to clean overflowing toilets and condom-filled couches, they are also made to perform body shots upon and drink tequila from the ass crack of the hairiest frat member, Bearcat (Gary Owen). By the time the ordeal is even halfway complete, Kevin finds himself naked and duct taped to a university statue, Morris blows his interview and blows chunks all over Dean Chandler’s (Wallace Merck) windshield, and Carter, well, let’s just say that the audience will intimately know every crevice on his massive bod. Remember the broken toilet revulsion spoken of above? Exactly.
At Pajiba, we all have our relative talents as bestowed by the almighty Godtopus, and I will admit to a certain predisposition, even enjoyment, in readily dealing with much of the cinematic crap. It’s a gift, really. Still, as Labor Day approacheth and another cinematic summer rolls to a close, I cannot help but wonder what the odds are for tripping into so many consecutive piles of sewage. Throw me a plunger, soon, Godtopus, so that I might duly calibrate the crap threshold, so to speak. After all, the most profound moment of College, which, by the way, isn’t even worth renting on DVD, occurs when hired party guest Vince Troyer (as himself) looks up at the fraternity officers and asks, “You guys really do this all day, for fun?” Dammit, I wanted to hug the little shit at that point, and that’s just wrong.
Agent Bedhead (a.k.a. “Kimberly”) lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She can be found at agentbedhead.com.Semper in excremento, sole profundum qui variat.
Film Reviews | August 30, 2008 | Comments ()