Project X – Film Review

There’s absolutely no doubt that your enjoyment of Project X will be directly proportional to your age but let’s make one thing clear from the outset, Project X is not a film. Films have plot, characters, themes, sometimes, if you’re really fortunate, subtext. Therefore Project X is not a film. Instead Project X is the result of a demographic baiting focus group in which males aged 15-24 gave the following answers of, “Boobs, drinking, swearing, boobs, weed, close ups of asses, boobs and swearing” to the question, “What will hold your attention for an hour and a half?”. Project X is not a film.

Usually in these film reviews we add the plot before the trailer. But we can’t because there isn’t one. Because Project X is not a film. It has a beginning and an end, in the fact that a party starts and ends, but like a concert film – perhaps the best comparison – there is no plot. This needs reiterating because Project X will make money and will spawn copycats. But these copycats need to be reclassified as something other than films to save the sanity of those that watch films for a living. Especially those born circa 1980.


Less than a month after the team behind Chronicle breathed new life into both the found footage technique and the high school movie genre, Project X takes a massive piss, from a great height, onto both. The found footage extends to little more than the aforementioned breasts and close ups of posteriors presented in a way that would make the crotch grabbing gash on MTV blush. Now as the peado-esque studio head that greenlit Project X said, let’s examine the teens.

Regardless of the fact that Project X isn’t a horror film (how can it be, it isn’t a film) you’ll be preying for a man in a mask to come and slice and dice these cretinous, mammary obsessed, pubeless wonders. Party hoster Thomas may be the kind of ‘Sweet 16’ who is pissed at mummy and daddy for buying him the wrong car for his birthday, but next to every single child onscreen he’s the most likeable. You’d have a better time hanging out with the titular lead in We Need To Talk About Kevin.

The crown for king of the douches falls on the instigator of the mayhem, Costa, a one note walking STD with the vocabulary of a pissed up, homeless Scotsman. While America presently debates contraception for the first time in 50 years (for some unknown reason) here’s a film that features a ‘hilarious’ end credits postscript where it’s revealed that Costa is at the wrong end of three different paternity tests. It’s tricky not to think that at least two of these are the result of statutory rape.

It’s when Larry Clark’s Kids enters your mind that you have to wonder whether you’re straying into Daily Mail territory, running for the hills screaming “Think of the children!”. Yet by doing so you’re almost letting the terrorists win, because you’re thinking of it as more than it is. It may be a better Al Qaeda recruitment tool than burning the Qu’ran, but it’s not a film.

Depending on whether or not you’re aware of a Neighbours character called Madge Bishop and a band called ‘The Longpigs’ will determine whether you think Project X is shallower than a pool of vomit or whether you’ll be able to hail it as “Off the Hook” without irony. Even those who can name all of ‘JLS’ might find the experience not dissimilar to standing outside a party with a group of misogynistic dullards yelling obscenities in your ear every ten seconds, as you look in, alone and cold, covered in your own vomit and piss.