Bravo! Bravo! You’ve outdone yourself, Hollywood! Step aside One Missed Call. The Unborn? You weren’t even in contention. White Noise? Don’t you wish. Nothing can or ever will compare. This is it! Everyone else is an also ran. The Roommate has done it. It has completely mastered the art of the completely unnecessary film. It’s a masterpiece of pointlessness! A tour de force of irrelevance. Just when you thought that the studio system couldn’t get any more slack-jawed, they make The Roommate, the most unneeded, most uncalled for, the most dispensable movie ever to grace the Silver Screen!
So many layers! It’s tedium piled on top of indifference wrapped in a crusty nugget of boredom. How did you do it, Christian E. Christiansen? And is that your real name? Jesus Christ, The Roommate contains precisely the amount of originality you’d expect from a director whose parents gave their child an abridged version of his last name. Indeed, The Roommate is an abridged version of Single-White Female set in a college dorm, only all the good parts, everything even remotely compelling or interesting in SWF has been edited out, stripped down to its banal, laborious elements and spliced back together with lithium, Minka Kelly’s exasperated sigh, and Leighton Meester’s vacuousness. In Men in Black III, they will no longer have to use the Neuralyzer to erase people’s memories — just sit them down in front of The Roommate, and afterwards, they will walk away with no memory of the last three days save for a foggy recollection that Billy Zane was somehow involved.
Moviegoers for decades to come will be in complete awe of The Roommate, of the holy power of the impotent minds who managed to create something this inconsequential. There’s not a single shot, not a single idea, not a single moment in The Roommate that is even accidentally redeeming. It’s a roller coaster of malaise. It’s not even a pile of shit; it’s a limp turd, flapping in the wind, five-stars of perfectly executed worthlessness.