You No Hungry for Girl? You Hungry for Hot Pocket!
The House Bunny / Dustin Rowles
Film Reviews | August 22, 2008 | Comments ()
The House Bunny is one of those films that’s so ungodly awful that a review is hardly even necessary. Suffice to say, if any of our readers are considering watching The House Bunny, you’re probably reading the wrong fucking site. You don’t need a movie critic to tell you that a makeover movie produced by Adam Sandler’s Happy Madison production company is almost too dumb to be offensive, but when a movie is this blatantly misogynistic, it’s hard to completely excuse it to Sandler’s brand of seemingly harmless stupidity. Indeed, from a personal standpoint, knowing that a few men had their hand in it (Sandler produced and a Happy Madison regular, Fred Wolf, directed) was almost enough to inspire me to rip off my penis halfway through and hand in my Male Card, so ashamed was I in what The House Bunny represented. But then, knowing that two females wrote it, and that at least one actress, Anna Farris, didn’t particularly need the paycheck, I didn’t feel as though I had anyone to hand my Male Card over to. The lesson? Adam Sandler and his entire entourage should be dropped off in the middle of Smith College and pinpricked just enough so that the flesh-eating womyn can smell their blood (the proceedings should also be filmed for the Smith College recruiting video — take that, you Puritanical Wesleyan post-feminist prudes).
The House Bunny follows Shelly (Farris), a 27-year-old Playboy Bunny who is purportedly tossed from the Playboy Mansion by Hef himself because of her age. Homeless and briefly jailed after inadvertently offering a police officer (played by increasingly shameful former “SportsCenter” anchor Dan Patrick) a hummer, Shelly stumbles into an opportunity. She is hired on as the house mother for a struggling sorority faced with eviction because they can’t recruit the necessary 30 pledges required by the University to keep their house. Why? Because the seven existing sorority girls aren’t “sexy” enough to attract boys, by which they mean they don’t readily give up their perfume-scented flowers to needledick frat boys.
Shelly offers to help by giving the unattractive girls makeovers and scenting their flowers, so to speak, offering them flirting tips, and teaching them how to hide their intelligence in order to woo men. The plan works, in part, because four of the girls weren’t ugly to begin with (after the makeover, the two less attractive girls are shoved into the back of the film’s remaining scenes, while Rumer Willis simply pretends, as she always does, to be conventionally beautiful) and because it’s a stupid fucking comedy and that’s the way stupid fucking comedies work (and now that I’m safely away from the clutches of WIMB, I can also safely say that, though she is — by all accounts — an awful fucking person, there’s nothing particularly unpleasant about Rumer Willis except for her personality. I can also safely forget that people like Rumer Willis even exist, as well as another of the sorority sisters, “American Idol” winner (?) Katherine McPhee). Meanwhile, Shelly becomes smitten with a smart-looking guy (Colin Hanks, whose father should take him behind the shed and make him pick his own goddamn switches), who doesn’t fall for her usual dumb girl, slutty tricks, and the smarter sorority girls help her to woo him with whatever the script writers pulled out of their studio-issued script software.
Ultimately, a valuable lesson is learned by all (and I shit you not that this is The House Bunny’s overall message): In order to get a man, you should be 50 percent yourself and 50 percent a cosmetically decorated robo-slut because, you know, you invite them with your open legs, but you hang onto them with your personality … and the jaws of life in your uterus, of course. But then again, the women in the film seemed to have a lot more fun when they were 100 percent robo-slut, so the message that most teenage girls will take home after watching The House Bunny is that showing your tits and hiding your intelligence is the quickest way into getting a man into your hot pocket. The hot melted cheese and the chemically-flavored meats should be enough to keep him … er … eating long enough to surreptitiously slip a ring on his finger.
In other words, you should never, ever put yourself through the experience of watching The House Bunny, in a theater, on DVD, on pay channels, on network television, in a box, with a fox, in a mouse, with a house, here or there, or anywhere. It’s a cinematic abomination, a movie so powerfully unfunny that I understand it actually sucks the humor out of films playing on nearby screens, which explains, in part, why even Rainn Wilson can’t extract a laugh out of The Rocker.
Dustin Rowles is the publisher of Pajiba. He lives with his wife and son in Portland, Maine. Please leave a comment or send an email.
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