The term thirst trap originated in the 1990s and refers to a shameless need for approval, affection or attention. Selfie culture giving rise, social media has taken the sentiment up a notch and is now considered a cry out to quench sexual frustration. Outrageous posts are meant to entice. Either way, writer/director Bob Freville’s 102 minute feature of the same name calls out the desperation, and by adding filmmakers, the crossover makes for a devilishly sarcastic commentary on the pervasive decadence.
At the heart of the matter, we open with Mason Burns (Nic Andrews). He is a social media influencer, and Andrews doesn’t wait to attach all the negative connotations associated. Pool bound in front of his huge mansion, Andrews’ delivery exudes a boundless arrogance that is completely at ease with a simple truth. He knows his character’s riches are undeserved, and too bad for you.
Still, the influencer wants to give his followers something to shoot for, and despite what he knows, the young man deceives himself into thinking that he’s providing a public service. All wet, not even a hot shower could cleanse the viewer of Mason’s grime.
Thus, the tone of the antagonist has been set, and now we are ready to intersect with the desperate, attention seeking group known as filmmakers. Roger Rock (Frank McGovern) is up first.
He’s living off past glory and must face that age has diminished the roles he can play. Not so amenable to the reality, he’s also a number of steps behind the times, and McGovern’s out of touch stubbornness cuts across the modern grain like comedy gold.
Cha-Ching, the amusement goes into another gear. Modern not necessarily better, the creative industrial complex on the other side of the casting table is rife with inconsistency. So as they ooze excessive woke-ness, there’s a competing condescension that negates any good intention with sheer hypocrisy.
Piling on, these so-called professionals have willingly become servants of social media and are out of step with the real world. All mixed together, the comedy singes in a paradigm where these gatekeepers have no idea that the joke is on them, and the wounds are completely self inflicted.
But the obliviousness still comes down on the actors and Mickey (Frank Badolato) is the next victim. Pretty desperate as the starving artist, he’s probably too nice a guy to survive this ruthless world. He persists nonetheless, and Badolato provides both traits with a soft spoken, straight forward determination.
He needs the fortitude because the desperation puts him in the cross hairs of Mason’s improper designs. Decadent beyond belief, the influencer could have sparked the MeToo movement all by himself.
Finally, we have Ron Yoo, who portrays a disabled actor named Robby. Just looking to be judged on his merits, Yoo’s impassioned performance completely ignores his handicap, and as a result, his crutches and lack of mobility are pretty easy to miss. Unfortunately, with a creative infrastructure that does everything it can to feel good about itself, the futile attempts at inclusiveness does him no favors and is at odds with his hope to be seen like everyone else.
There’s also another character that is hard to miss. The saccharin sounding, noninvasive elevator music that tries to lull us to sleep and make this all seem normal.
The innocuousness does a pretty good job too. Sedating, the distinctly background score almost becomes a louder voice than all the inappropriate discourse and activity taking place.
The cinematic framing of the scenes has a similar effect. Nothing going on in the background, Freville wants to make you think nothing is going on in the foreground too.
So nobody is safe? Not exactly, the truth is that no one is above the fray. And in the end, for those not in the business and unburdened by the excesses of social media, you’ll just be glad that the joke isn’t on you.
