Only one thing could break my Internet silence and return to posting on my very own site: Youth In Revolt: The Movie. I am a very big fan of the book – an immense fan of the book. It's basically my favorite book ever. I have been looking forward to this movie with equal parts eager anticipation and loathing dread for over a year and a half now. It's been almost three years since I have patronized the local Cineplex – the last movie I saw was The Simpson's Movie. It's good to see that the great recession still hasn't prevented Hollywood from greasing up their fingers and sliding them ever so gently into my wallet and taking $7.50 for a matinee. Clearly supply and demand is no longer in effect, because there were precisely four other people in the theatre with me. I also noticed that they no longer play 'The Ten Spot' or whatever they called it before films. They no longer feed you trivia about actors or actresses that will be appearing in upcoming films. They gave up the false pretense that they were somehow entertaining you, and decided to show nothing but advertisements for television shows and future movies. Also, there are no good movies coming up. Did you know that Bruce Willis and Tracey Morgan are starring in a movie together? You'll never guess what it is. See, Bruce Willis a hardnosed cop, and he gets teamed up with a new partner, who just happens to be black! And as a team they don't play by the rules. It's from the same studio that brought you Dirty Harry if that is any consolation. High jinks will ensue! Revolutionary filmmaking! Anyway, about Youth In Revolt…

I was all prepared to hate this film. As I mentioned earlier, I dearly love this book. I feel a part of me is Nick Twisp. I followed all the casting decisions and was somewhat disappointed. I had never seen Portia Doubleday, but judging from her glamour shot she didn't look like Sheeni Saunders to me. Likewise, Justin Long is no Paul Saunders. When I saw the preview trailer, I gave up any hope that this film was going to be good in any conceivable way. The trailer had everything you don't want to see in a movie. Ironic use of Bon Jovi? Check. Guys standing awkwardly without clothes on? Check. Lots of general necking? Check and check. It looked like just another general raunchy teenage sex comedy.

I'm glad I was wrong.

The film actually is pretty fantastic. I always pictured Michael Cera as Nick Twisp, and I was quickly won over on the Portia Doubleday as Sheeni Saunders thing. Though, Justin Long as Paul Saunders did not work for me, but this may be because I despise Justin Long. Luckily, he is barely in the film, and plays a much less prominent role than in the book. In any event, the movie was entertaining, and remained fairly true to the book (more on that later). They made sure to include many of the one-liners found in the book. Obviously, when you have a 500-page book, and an hour and a half movie, some things are going to get cut. It's akin to trying to stuff a size-30 woman into a size-8 dress. Also, people who have not read the book will probably have difficulty keeping up with all the characters. The movie had very poor character development. People seem to instantly appear, and then disappear just like that. I assure you that it makes complete sense in the book. The movie completely transmogrified the ending of the book, and thus ends in a completely different manner. Like I mentioned earlier, I completely understand the need to do this. I'd still encourage people to see it. However, if you like the movie, you would love the book to pieces. I'd like to copy a section of the first page on the book, with a quote so wonderful that I actually wrote it down the first time I read it:

"The next thing you should know about me is that I am obsessed with sex. When I close my eyes, ranks of creamy thighs slowly part like some X-rated Busby Berkeley extravaganza. Lately I have become morbidly aware of my penis. Once a remote region accessed indifferently for businesslike micturition, it has developed—seemingly overnight—into a gaudy Las Vegas of the body, complete with pulsing neon, star-studded floor shows, exotic animal acts, and throngs of drunken conventioneers perpetually on the prowl for depraved thrills. I walk about in a state of obsessive expectancy, ever conscious of an urgent clamor rising from my tumescent loins. Any stimulus can trigger the show—a rhythmic rumble from the radiator, the world "titular" in a newspaper editorial, even the smell of the old vinyl in Mr. Ferguson's Toyota."

Amen.