Shithouse (2020) | Film Review

As soon as you hear the words “college comedy”, a plethora of titles come flying into view: Animal House, Van Wilder, Old School. The one thing the majority seem to have is that they imagine this insanely bombastic version of college where everything is cheap sex, cheaper drugs, and nonstop parties. What is rarely, if ever, acknowledged about the institutional experience, is the overwhelming feeling of loneliness one can endure. In its delightfully upbeat way, Shithouse admirably sets out to tackle just that.

Cooper Raiff (who also wrote, directed, and probably catered) stars as Alex, a young college student with a strong family connection – he frequently calls his mother and sister for support – who is struggling to find his footing. His roommate, Sam (Logan Miller), spends his days as trashed as anyone in those previously mentioned films, and Alex has no other real “friends” to speak of with the exception of a stuffed dog he converses with in a hilarious yet overtly creepy manner. Desperate to make connections, Alex ventures off to a party at Shithouse.

Dylan Gelula stars as Maggie, a young RA who refuses to be placed in a box, engaging in meaningless relationships as she instead chooses to focus on school, fun, and her own future. After a liaison goes south, Maggie heads back to the resident hall where she bumps into Alex and invites him to join her for a night of introspection.

Cooper Raiff’s screenplay deftly establishes both Alex and Maggie as – crazy as it may sound – genuine characters. Far too often in romantic comedies, and especially college-set comedies, the leads are mere caricatures of the extreme partying aspects versus an introspective dissection of how this experience seeps into the souls of young people not quite ready to fully adult.

Alex is a charming loner, yes, but not entirely by choice. He continues to try and find his footing, yet truly struggles to find his own way. He comes from a home full of support and love, and college is a long way off from that world. Raiff’s performance is so absolutely pinpoint accurate of the desperation that occurs when someone leaves their nest earlier than they’re prepared for, that it is downright eerie in its blunt honesty. One particular moment focuses on Alex failing to maintain his own façade with his mother that builds into one of the most brutally heartbreaking moments captured on film this year.

Likewise, Dylan Gelula’s Maggie is not “complicated” or “an independent woman” as so many will opine about, she is her own person, refuting the trappings that relationships drop on those with dreams and aspirations. Gelula refuses to succumb to romantic comedy clichés and charts her character’s own course by refusing to place Maggie solidly on any checklist. Where Alex wears his desires on his sleeve, Maggie has no interest in them at all. She is here to succeed, everything else is just accentuating the experience.

Essentially, Shithouse (honestly an unfortunate title for marketing purposes) evolves into much more than Before Sunrise: The College Years. Cooper Raiff establishes himself as a voice for his generation, one who refuses to relegate his film to tropes and overwrought hijinks and instead focuses on the humanity of two young people ultimately learning who and where they truly want to be. This is a beautifully honest film about embracing life, and I cannot wait to see what Raiff comes up with next.

Follow our further discussion on Shithouse via this episode of The Hollywood Outsider podcast: