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A weekend in a summer house, where six late twenties friends have reunited. A series of life crises force them to confront their relationships and lives, leading them to discover what it really means to grow up.
An ex-con (Rick Schroder) returns to town after being released from prison and begins threatening his former college buddies about a frat party hazing incident that they all have tried to hide in their past.
Four hip women get ready for Friday night in LA: they dress, talk about sex, and hit a bar before meeting four men at a rave. The men prepare by talking about sex and drinking. Rick and Jean, two attorneys, have set up the evening, connect at the club, and have a good time. The pairings of Shawn, Trent, Whitney and Emma are more serendipitous. But it's Mike and Sara's night that has serious repercussions: he's an NFL player, loud, swaggering; she's a party animal who drinks a lot early that evening. At 4 AM, she appears at Jean's, disheveled and bruised, saying Mike raped her. Arrested, he says he's innocent, and in flashbacks we see both sides of the story. Written by
After watching this insipid piece of self-serving vacuous tripe, I got down on my knees and thanked God that when I was a twenty-something I lived in New York City and not LA. This film doesn't have a single redeeming quality. The title is moronic since it has nothing to do with anything in the movie. The acting is sophomoric (which I should have expected with Tara Reid as the lead). The pretentious direct-to-the-camera commentary by the principals comes off as laughable verbal diarrhea. Truman Capote once said that from the time the wheels of your jet touch down in LA your IQ goes down in a geometrically progressive fashion for each day you remain there. That the makers of this film took themselves seriously bears out his statement.
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