My friend and confidant, the roving radio guy Kevin Finnerty is well known for making some pretty hilarious comments during films. For instance during one film he shouted midway through “I want to leave.” Another time, when a film was dragging terribly, he said “Oh, let it end.” Sometimes his thoughts are summed up by a simple “Ugh,” or “oh boy.” He even interacts with the characters on screen like when one asks “Do you still love me?” Kevin will reply “No.” Given the right (or wrong) film, Kevin can make the experience somewhat enjoyable. What does this have to do with I Love You, Beth Cooper? Quite simply, Kevin was the funniest part of this complete waste of time, money, and film.
Which is bigger, my boobs or forehead?
It’s going to be tough to not use obscenities to describe this picture but one can try. In addition, the negativity that’s going to be directed toward this movie might make me run out of bad words to use for it. Beth Cooper lacks the ingridients necessary to make a movie, good or bad. There’s no point mentioning a script, direction, or acting because the man in charge of this torture Chris Colombus doesn’t believe this movie needs any of that. What he subscribes to is putting a camera somewhere and telling the performers to do something. Gone is the three act structure that even Lessons of Terrible Twilight and Mortal Kombat: Annihilation try to follow. What this medieval torture tries to do is emulate a John Hughes movie but forgot to bring everything that made those slightly enjoyable. Scenes just occur with no cohesion which is common when a film lacks a plot or this lovely thing called character development. The film is an hour and twenty minutes shorter than Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen yet it feels like it will never end. It feels like some sick joke Chris Colombus is trying to play on an audience to see how long they can stand being pummeled.
Paul Rust looks nothing, absolutely nothing close to a high-school student even with his anteater nose. Yes, his looks are supposed to repulse one as much as the film he’s in, but he looks like a creepy pedophile trying to bang the popular girl. He’s confused half the time probably because he has nothing to go on as the master of torture (director) and the architect of pain (screenwriter Larry Doyle) choose not to provide him anything. Equally as horrid as Hayden Panettiere as the title character who doesn’t need her character to be hatable. She’s unlikable from the moment she’s on screen and only gets worse as she plagues the film with her venom. Her line delivery sucks and her IMAX sized forehead makes her unsexy. The problem with both of these characters is that they wouldn’t be able to stand each other. Yes, it’s a movie after all but forgetting that these two have zero chemistry, they just wouldn’t get along at all.
The supporting cast doesn’t provide much as they’re given as much to do as the leads. Jack T. Carpenter is a stereotype of the “best friend who might be gay” and thinks that means annoy us to death. He’s a saint though compared to someone who should never come onto a set again in Lauren Storm. If there was a way to send her a letter to not step onto a film set again, she’d have it in her mailbox very, very soon. Her agenda in this film is to give the worst performance by a female ever, a task at which she undeniably excels at. Every time her mouth opens it causes physical pain to the audience’s body making one grab their heart in agony. Complementing her well is Shawn Roberts as Kevin, the alpha male douche boyfriend of Beth Cooper. He deserves to have his acting priviledges revoked for one year for his crimes committed here. Sadly, veterans Alan Ruck and Cynthia Stevenson ought to be ashamed of themselves even if they are just collecting paychecks.
Honestly, there’s not much else to say than to beg with the audience to not go near this film. It redefines terrible in ways not thought possible. It’s the worst film of the last five years, and most of the critics at my screening started our own little Myster Science Theater session midway through this crap. On a personal note, I flipped off the screen multiple times in hopes that the film print would somehow burn up and spare us from this new form of torture. To quote another film, ‘this was worse than cancer.’ It’s too easy to say I Hate You, Beth Cooper so instead I’ll say I Wish The Bubonic Plague, Want to Pull Your Heart Out, and Eat It While You Watch, Beth Cooper.
If I could give it a lower grade, I would.
