College: How The Worst Movie Ever Ruined My Labor Day Weekend

Ten minutes into this movie I wanted to walk out. I spent the next 84 minutes regretting not following this decision. This is the dedication and commitment I have to you, the Poptimal audience. So out of respect for you, I’ll keep this short. Under no circumstances should you go see this movie. You should not go to a free showing, you should not watch it if it ever makes it on to television, and you should not rent it on DVD. If someone gets you this movie for a gift, you should burn it and never speak to that person again because that person hates you and you can find a better friend. In fact, sitting alone night after night eating cold Chinese food and watching Diff’rent Strokes reruns is a better friend than that friend. (And trust me, I know.)

College retraces the worn-out track of films with the high school students drinking and partying and sexing it up. It’s tired and over done. To make this old story fresh, the filmmakers must make even cruder “jokes” and be even more disgusting than anything you’ve previously seen. On this point, the filmmakers of College succeeded. I was grossed out, I was offended, and I lost many brain cells that opted to commit suicide instead of absorbing any aspect of this movie. Bravo!

Setting aside the lame story and the copious and gratuitous boob shots and f-bombs, the acting was equally painful. Our lead, played by Drake Bell, needs to pick better films. I recall him doing a decent job in Yours, Mine & Ours (don’t judge) and with his portrayal of a young John Cusack in High Fidelity. His sidekicks were Andrew Caldwell and newcomer Kevin “Chicken Little” Covais, who I presume were given the direction to “do it more like Jack Black” and “be yourself like when Simon used to mock you week after week,” respectfully. (Note: If you want a good minute of squirming in your seat, watch the scene with Covais doing nitrous oxide and getting a handjob. Only turn the volume down and listen to Covais sing “Vincent” from his stint on American Idol. Truly a “starry, starry night.”) The rest are unmemorable, and frankly, I’ve seen better acting on late night Cinemax and at least there the nudity is tastefully done.

But even my critical eye could find something good in this film. The title credits were great and gave the (false) impression that this was going to be a cool, hip, fresh indy film. Of course, to think that would mean you missed the promotional poster with the guy’s head in an open toilet. Still, great title credits. Oh and props to the set designer: the station wagon with “pussy” on the side was a great shout out to Quentin Tarantino. That was intentional, right? Please!?! Who am I kidding? Even the movie theatre knew this would suck and appropriately consigned it to the small, six row theatre in the back—or as I call it “the Eddie Murphy Wing.”

So in lieu of going to this movie, I suggest a night at home with one or more of the following 1990s high school comedies: 10 Things I Hate About You, Bring It On, Can’t Hardly Wait, American Pie, or Clueless—great films, great takes on high school life, and great use of the “sideboob.”