The more I thought about my review over the weekend of Catfish, the more I felt obligated to spill the beans about it a little bit more. Because the only reason the filmmakers put the “Don’t Let Anyone Tell You What It Is” schtick in their marketing is because nobody would see this movie without it. I feel obligated to do my duty as a filmgoer to enlighten some people about what they’re walking into. I’m going to spoil it for some folks- and if you’re really desperate to not know, then read no further. But do so at your own peril.
This is an absolute joke of a film. The film evokes Hitchcock in the trailer, and was marketed heavily as a horror, or a suspense, or… anything than what it actually was- a documentary about some dumpy housewife in Michigan who created a flock of fake Facebook accounts, and duped some schmuck in New York who (creepily enough in his own right) had struck up a long-distance relationship with a fake person he’d never met. “Ok”, you may be thinking. “That’s your own fault for having those expectations”, you might say.
So let’s gauge it purely on its merit as a documentary, pretending that it was never falsely marketed DELIBERATELY by the filmmakers in the hopes of basically stealing filmgoers’ money. How does it rank as a documentary? It’s awful. Some forty minutes of this thing features the very unlikable protagonist FACEBOOKING AND TEXTING. If I wanted to witness the mind-numbing banality of someone facebooking and texting, I’d go hang out with a bunch of Junior High kids. So what’s the point of all this? To let us know that (GASP!!!) sometimes people lie about things on the internet! WOW! I didn’t know that at all.
And there’s a really smug, smarmy vibe about how these poor, bored midwesterners living in their flyover states have nothing better to do with their time, and their lives are so boring and blah blah blah. Please cut the crap. In summation, I’d rather rub sandpaper on my genitals than go through an experience like this again, and I highly, highly recommend you skip this movie. You might recall my very strong hatred of the movie Crash. I actually hated Catfish more than that.
There. I just saved you 90 long, boring boobless minutes.