Any movie (or “photoplay” as this is referred to in the end credits) that gives writing credit to the “entire cast” is doomed to fail. At the very least it will come across as uneven, and that’s the most complimentary one can be. “A Year of Celibacy” doesn’t disprove that theory, though the basic idea behind the movie is a good one.
When a film centers around a sex addict (Holly Zoffoli as Lucy), you expect it to be interesting. You don’t anticipate characters sitting around talking about things that sound very important, but aren’t really that pressing at all. You don’t expect every character to be pompous, pretentious and so very self-absorbed (while at the same time seeming to care about everyone around them), but that’s what you get with this film. The characters aren’t written this way on purpose, they are made this way through bad writing and acting. Case in point: the art critic/constipated character played by Nancy Rush and Lucy’s love interest, Yoshi (Jonathan Burstein), who calls landscaping the “text” of life. These are the kind of people who discuss “the world” over cups of coffee at Starbuck’s … and think they are above the confines of the mundane without realizing they are the byproducts of it. Moviegoers can tolerate one or two characters like that in a movie, but an entire cast? That gets real old after ten minutes.
Lucy, as a sex addict, may want to change her life around. She may want to find love, and she may not like getting rejected by a man who is “in love with plants,” but life is unfair. Her character represents all that is wrong with people, and while she is a good character to base a movie around, she needs to be surrounded by people who are more intellectually advanced than she, and not those who merely pretend to be such people.
With all that’s wrong with this film, at least producer/director Lisa Bostwick had the good idea of throwing in some songs by punk stalwarts Hickey. That alone doesn’t help this movie, which feels like it runs in real time, but it’s a start … a really slow start.
