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I chuckled at a joke in Transylmania. This joke, and this joke alone, is what merited this movie one half of a star. What is this saving grace, this gaudy movie’s brief and wondrous bastion of humor? Let me tell you all about it: About a third of the way into the film, nondescript horny male college student A tries to give nondescript horny male college student B sex advice. “You know what you should look at?” student A asks. “The erotic comic books I’ve been writing alongside my memoirs.”
Yes, I chuckled at this joke in Transylmania, this not-altogether un-clever snippet of absurdity. It was not the kind of chuckle that would give a movie a star in its entirety, mind you. That would be a more wholesome expression of profound amusement, perhaps involving my hands clasped on my belly and my head thrown backwards. This was a decidedly half-hearted and half-star worthy guffaw—lackadaisical and somewhat forced. It made me feel unclean afterwards. I actually took a shower later in a grungy Lathrop bathroom, softly crying to myself while rocking back and forth in the fetal position.
Great acting, clever writing, emotional engagement and competent design; all of this and more were likely enjoyed by the lucky ducks watching the film Brothers in the theater next to mine. Why did the seemingly Oscar-contending powerhouse starring the likes of Jake Gyllenhal, Tobey Macguire and Natalie Portman have to start at one o’clock? Why did the Leprechaun shuttle have to arrive 30 minutes too late for me to get a ticket? Why was the National Lampoon wannabe I saw instead even in theaters, when by all rights it should have been a straight-to-DVD “special unrated edition” kinda deal? Why was the theater empty besides one other person, making me wish I were invisible whenever the oh-so-judgmental usher passed me by with his icy, jeering eyes? Why did the other attendee sit behind me and laugh way too loudly in between mouthfuls of popcorn every time there was a penis joke?
Of course it would be hypocritical of me not to remind you once again that, yes, I too chuckled at a joke in Transylmania. But I’m happy to say it at least wasn’t one of the penis jokes. Oh, the onslaught of penis jokes. And weed jokes and poop jokes and every shade of sex joke on the fourth-grade humor color wheel. I have nothing against these on principle—it’s just that none of them were good at all. I feel bad for all of the pubescent males who will sneak this thing into their rooms late at night for the female nudity, but will have to suffer through a film where stoners eat goat testicles and characters spend a straight minute vomiting into overflowing buckets. There are more dignified ways to see boobies, boys. Please take heed.
But I digress. Transylmania, believe it or not, has a plot. Rusty (aka horny, male college student A) goes to spend a semester abroad in Romania with his friends in order to visit his girlfriend he found over the Internet. The eclectic gang of nerds, stoners and bros party it up on a chaotic campus rife with sexy vampire babes, a hunchbacked nymphomaniac, an evil midget principal and a host of other eccentrics. Sounds like your typical college road trip movie, right? Wrong: It’s way worse.
My viewing experience was salvaged by the therapeutic retreat of my blue raspberry Icee. I wish that I had written my review about that in hindsight. There was so much more to say. It was so much more complex and engaging than any of the movie’s idiotic dialogue, sweeter than any of the botched attempts at romantic narrative, smoother than the choppy editing and almost as cold as the film’s reception has been with critics (can you say zero percent rating on rottentomatos.com?) And goodness gracious it was yummers. I made up a small game to pass the time: Every time something I saw onscreen that made me question my faith in humanity, I treated myself to a life-affirming sip of corn syrup deliciousness. So, I would just like to make something clear: The blue raspberry Icee sold to me at 1:46 p.m. by the short, freckled, male employee at Regal 16 Cinemas at the Poughkeepsie Galleria gets three and a half stars. Kudos!
I will be eternally grateful for the hope instilled within me thanks to that majestic Icee of the gods. But despite its profound effect on my Sunday afternoon, it will not be what will forever linger upon my conscious. You see, the fact of the matter is, I chuckled at a joke in Transylmania. It was a joke about erotic comic books. And I chuckled at it.
How can I carry on now?
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