Film

Lit Up

A Succinct Review for the Discerning Cinephile

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I very rarely find that fictional films move me to political action, but in the case of Lit Up, something needs to be done to prevent the distribution of a film that confirms the most alarmingly embarrassing stereotypes of doughy white Portlanders. Namely, that we're pot-obsessed idiots with bad taste and nothing better to do than dry-hump couches in our ridiculously huge and beautiful houses on SE 36th and Belmont that we somehow can afford even though we are lazy assholes who don't do anything except make movies about lazy assholes who have a really hard time successfully acquiring both marijuana and falafel in the same day without peeing their pants multiple times and being intimidated by other embarrassing nerds.

True, anything operating under the umbrella of "pot culture" should be approached with extreme caution—but this local film is literally so bad that I am afraid to ever smoke pot again because it might flip the switch in my brain over to the very scary place where shit like this is funny and smoking pot is still as impressive to me as it was when I was about seven years old and the world was full of wonder.

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