How deep and profound a critical analysis am I expected to dive into for a movie like Project X? Seriously, the film is a low-grade, found footage flick about three high school losers who set out to throw an epic house party (and do), as a means of claiming a shred of popularity.
There are enough booze, boobs, and barbiturates to fill three seasons of a MTV reality show, let alone this 88-minute romp. The marketing materials have likened Project X to Superbad meets The Hangover. I don’t necessarily think that’s fair. Project X, far more than those other films, is completely aware of how fucking absurd it is. Which, dare I say, adds to its ingenuity.
Is the film ridiculous? Of course. Is it completely illogical? No doubt. But, at times, it’s also fun as hell. Worthy of an $11 admission price? God no. Something to watch while pregamming with your friends before you hit the town? Why not.
It’s Thomas’s birthday, but it’s also his parents’ anniversary, which is why Thomas’s best friend, a beyond annoying little pissant named Costa, plans to throw Thomas a party while his parents are away.
They invite everyone they bump into at school, Costa sends e-mail and text blasts, puts commercials on radio stations, you name it. Needless to say, the party takes off in a major way. Fifty people turns into 200 turns into 1,000. DJs are spinning in two separate rooms, girls swim naked, ecstasy is devoured by the handful, liquor is gulped by the gallon, a small dog is shotgunned a few pulls of weed – you get it.
And this is how things more or less go for the film’s center 50 minutes. Some of it is funny, most of it is too much. When the party hits its peak, the cops finally decide to show up, only to leave after Costa owns them with some legal mumbo-jumbo. The next time the cops arrive, they are in SWAT gear and a deranged drug dealer is decorating the neighborhood with a flamethrower.
So, yes, Project X is complete bullshit, void of any stretch of realism (which, I suppose, is the exact opposite of the ungodly useless found footage narrative device). In reality, the cops would’ve busted the party up by 10 p.m., long before the news helicopters and the floating dog and the testicle-punching midget and the sunken Benz ever showed up or occurred.