Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm
Nick Twisp is supposed to be a smartass. The entire series is written as journal entries from the mind of a loser who thinks he's Rico fucking Suave. He's cocky, sneaky, deceptive, shady, smarmy, and a complete fucking tool. He's Eddie Haskell if he was trying to get into The Beav's Mom's The Beav. And people hate him. His family hates him. His dog hates him. His friends become his worst enemies. He's the scum of the earth, and I love every "getting caught masturbating" moment of his life.
I don't know whether to blame Gustin Nash for blowing his Charlie Bartlett paycheck on crap-adapting a precious tome. I don't know whether to hate Miguel Arteta for blandicizing gold. But I do know to blame Michael Cera. The rest of the cast appears to be spot on: I love me some Jean Smart, and Zach G. is a good guy. And they've also got Steve Buscemi playing a creep, and hopefully Justin Long channeling some Brandon St. Randy as Paul Saunders. But Cera is so wrong. Like Thanksgiving dinner table handjob from your grandma wrong. Into the mashed potatoes. I haven't been this disgusted since they digitally douched Hayden Christensen into the reimaged Return of the Jedi.
I will not forgive this movie. My only hope is to make you all run out and buy copies of Youth in Revolt and read them. And again, it's not a life changing book. It's not brilliant scathing critique on society. It's probably more like Porky's for the dorkset. But goddammit, it'll give you a fucking chuckle. Moreso than this cinematic abortion.
Fire up the Murdertank, motherfuckers. Daddy's got a Maple Leaf to burn.
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