Twelve (2010) Is Strangely Poetic
Christmas Eve was probably not the best night to try to watch Twelve. We popped some corn, turned up the electric fire, got cozy on the couch, and started the film. After fifteen minutes of what seemed like over-narration, rich kids, and recreational drugs, I turned to FCE and said, “We don’t have to watch this if you don’t want to.” Instead, he agreed to The Cell (J-Lo, circa 2000), a Netflix DVD that’s been sitting around for about a month because he was avoiding it. (Ironically, we enjoyed it a lot.)
Which is why, two days after Christmas, and the day before Twelve would be released on DVD, I spent the afternoon with it. Despite director Joel Schumacher, it is just another kids, sex, and dope movie…isn’t it?
Well, no…not exactly. Yes, it’s full of kids (high school seniors), and the kids drink and use drugs, and they seem to have incredibly active sex lives (when the heck do they do their homework?), but Twelve is a moody, post-modern essay on excess and neglectful parents. Most of the characters are members of sinfully rich families, who seem to have the best of everything and want for nothing, except—maybe—parental attention and discipline.
The narration by Kiefer Sutherland, which I found so distracting on first viewing, is, perhaps, the best part of the film (I realize many people disagree). There’s not so much of a “this is going on” feel to it, as a “this is what went on,” a tale of all the sad things in life that brought the characters to where we find them. It is both fond and brutal, at times melodramatic, and serves as a commentary on these particular people in this particular place. Sutherland’s delivery is flawless; the narrative is modern poetry, observations of people and a culture that lack depth or meaning.
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