Turning 21 with a brew of film and drink

The very mention of one’s impending 21st birthday is enough to trigger images of debauchery taken to unprecedented heights of ill-advisedness, a veritable parade of please-God-not-another-well-okay shots and ethereal haziness descending, under ideal conditions, into a joyous frenzy of uncontrollable hemorrhaging and all-inclusive carnal depravity the sight of which would make our dear old Marquis blush like a schoolgirl.

This, at least, summarizes my thoughts and feelings regarding the subject. Perhaps excepting the “vomiting blood” bit and intimations of sadomasochistic tendencies (all for shits and gigs, kiddos – don’t get any bad ideas from Uncle Justin), I would assume my little fantasy to be fairly representative.

You can imagine my growing euphoria, then, as that mythic date (March 11, same as the release of “Battle: Los Angeles” – coincidence or harbinger of apocalypse? You decide) crept ever closer over the course of the last month. Initially discouraged by its placement on the Friday before spring break, my friends and I put our brainpower together and decided to pull some Mission: Impossible shit (Peter Graves, not Tom Cruise; [expletive] Tom Cruise and his stupid smirk). Following an extended period of careful consideration and peer review, we conspired to cheat the system by hitting the bar at midnight on Thursday.

Much as I already relished the notion of shoving my ID in the face of that bouncer who’d routinely turned me away and said things that made me feel inadequate in the pants, Thursday night was clearly going to require some serious pre-gaming in order to ensure the fulfillment of its explosive destiny. Toward this end a pre-bar get together was arranged, gifts and pastries were presented (something that sincerely surprised me and made the night that much sweeter in between bouts of retching), alternative states of mind were reached and, perhaps most importantly, “The Room” was procured as entertainment.

I don’t know that I can truly describe the phenomenon known as “The Room” with any true representational accuracy, but I’ll make an effort. Director/aspiring auteur/possible alien Tommy Wiseau, a truly unique individual of indeterminate national origin whose accent suggests a bizarre melting pot of French, Germanic and Slavic influences, set out in the early ‘00s to craft a chamber drama infused with “the passion of Tennessee Williams,” to quote a conspicuously un-sourced blurb on the back of the box. When audiences either laughed through screenings or demanded their money back (or both), “The Room” instead found itself re-marketed as a “black comedy,” much to the delight of its ever-growing cult fanbase who read the earnestness of Wiseau’s intentions all too clearly.

As such, the almost elemental badness of the film – a friend called it “so bad it’s brilliant” – renders it a perfect companion to the consumption of alcohol. Accidental comedic motifs lend themselves irresistibly to drinking games. If you’re looking to get real trashy real quick, chug every time a character utters the phrase “Oh hi” or “Oh hey” – people are always very surprised to see each other in the world of Tommy Wiseau. (Warning: may result in the spraying of your drink when Wiseau, who stars in a turn to make Brando and Dean quiver in their boots, spots a pup sitting on the flower shop counter and coos “Oh hi doggy!”). Indeed, you really don’t even need booze when you’ve got “The Room” around. From Wiseau’s morbidly hypnotic “where the hell is he from?” slur to guys playing football three feet apart in tuxedos to characters that switch positions between shots and dramatic pans across the city-scape that ultimately cut to the same location as before, the thing’s a mind-altering substance in and of itself.

I realize this article has veered somewhat off-track, but once I get going on this subject I become very passionate. In fact, I must confess to using you, dear reader, as something of a guinea pig, since it is my burning ambition to one day conduct a legitimate scholarly investigation of “The Room” and submit it for publication. Any feedback or advice would be greatly appreciated. I am not kidding about this.

Getting back to my original topic at the last second, the remainder of the night following my little film screening – which, I might add, turned out to be a resounding success; I don’t think one room has ever housed so much funny – was a blast of epic proportions, falling pretty squarely in line with my preconceptions minus the S&M hijinks. Although I expected Lab N’ Lager to more closely resemble the Mos Eisley cantina (it lacked that whiff of bantha poodoo which gives any bar an edge of danger), I greatly enjoyed my first trip to the bar and plan on making another real soon. Alas, all that partaking had the probable effect of kicking a cold I’d been nursing into overdrive; the next morning was not quite so enjoyable, and I ended up spending most of my break lying around and drinking plenty of fluids. Since this is going on too long as is and I’m still feeling distinctly poopy, I think I’ll stick a pin in it.

Justin Levesque can be contacted at jlevesque@keeneequinox.com