Let me just quote you a few things right out of the production notes: "Peter M. Cohen makes his feature film debut with WHIPPED. A graduate of the Peter Stark Producing Program at USC, Cohen was working as an advertising producer at J. Walter Thompson in New York City when he began raising finances to make his film. He was able to begin principal photography a few months later and completed the shoot in a mere 18 days. Cohen had formerly worked in development at Castle Rock Entertainment and then as assistant to director Jonathan Lynn on SGT. BILKO."
There are at least three or four red flags the size of Nicaragua waving around in that paragraph and it baffles me as to exactly how anybody who could have prevented this movie from hitting the theaters didn't threaten to attack Peter Cohen's groin with a hedge trimmer before it was inflicted on the general public.
The "Peter Stark Producing Program"? Does that even qualify you to mess with the carrots in a supermarket? What the hell is that? That's like saying you have a degree in nuclear physics from Tony's Community College and Pizzeria. And "advertising producer" -- anybody with a credit involving the word "advertising" should not be let anywhere near a feature film, self-financed or not. No wonder Cohen's camera was lingering on the back of Amanda Peet's neck, he was trying to catch a glimpse of the DKNY tag so he could squeeze some money out of Donna Karan. I also don't think shooting a movie in 18 days is necessarily a good thing. Finally, I would not brag about having worked on "Sgt. Bilko." That should be Hollywoodspeak for "get the fuck off the lot."
No surprise then that this turd of a film focuses on all the characters except the one who's interesting, which is the girl, Mia (Amanda Peet). She dates three friends: Brad (Brian Van Holt), Zeke (Zorie Barber) and Jonathan (Jonathan Abrahams), all at the same time. All are classic cinematic characters: Brad is an asshole. Jonathan is a loser. And in a bold stretch, Zeke is an asshole/loser. Let me tell you, the warm fuzzies were floating around the theater like mini-Hindenburgs. The film plods toward an obvious end about as dramatic as a suicide jump off an aerobic stepper -- though if you wanted to kill yourself after seeing "Whipped," I couldn't blame you.
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