Ugh. The Rules of Attraction is the kind of movie that leaves vague impressions and a nasty aftertaste but little clear memory of its operational mechanics. Experiencing it is perhaps the film equivalent of swallowing roofies — though it’s not nearly as much fun. Writer/director Roger Avary (Killing Zoe and co-writer of Pulp Fiction) is up to his old stylistic tricks here in his adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’ novel about college-aged users and takers (of both the emotional and pharmaceutical kind). But no amount of photographic horseplay can vitalize this flat kegger of a film. We can say that with certainty because Avary employs a practically nonstop barrage of split screens, backwards credits, speed adjustments, chronological alterations, and other stylistic techniques to pique our interest and further the story, but it’s all to little avail. The Rules of Attraction doesn’t know the first thing about winning an audience. Its panoply of characters are not so much off-putting and irritating as they are tedious and undeveloped. Dawson Creeker James Van Der Beek stars as the movie’s nominal leading man Sean Bateman (younger brother of American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman). The events take place at Camden College, a dormitory playpen for privileged kids who seemingly move from party to party instead of from classroom to classroom. Basically, it’s an MTV Nation version of a sexual roundelay film in which Sean pines for Lauren (Sossamon), who pines for absent Victor (Pardue), who cares for no one. Lauren’s roommate Lara (Biel) throws herself at anything with a pulse, and Paul (Somerhalder) trolls for both men and women. Their stories are told in an overlapping manner, as various events — mostly parties — unfold and are presented from different participants’ perspectives. The problem is that there are really few differences among their perspectives, and they have zero insight to offer. Occasionally older pros such as Eric Stoltz, Faye Dunaway, and Swoosie Kurtz share some screen time with these young TV stars (although it’s hard to decide which category Fred Savage belongs in). However, Dunaway and Kurtz, as tanked-up visiting moms, are probably going to want to excise this outing from their filmographies. I wish I could do the same.
This article appears in October 11 • 2002.
