For a film meant to delve into the experience of being young, rich, and messed up in New York City, Twelve rarely lets its subjects open their mouths. Instead it plays like the filmstrip an anthropology student from Zambia might make about Upper East Side teenagers after a semester of research involving nothing but episodes of Dragnet and Gossip Girl . And maybe The Rules of Attraction , the atrocious 2002 adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s novel of the same name. Over-narrated by Kiefer Sutherland in full “this is extremely important and also very, very cool” mode, from its first self-important minutes Twelve seems as if it can’t possibly be serious. Would that it were not.
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REVIEW: Ridiculous Twelve Overdoses on Utter Vapidity
