Danny Sanders works as a photo editor for the site Depravity, a publication that nods to a Vice aesthetic while aspiring to publish viral columns and leave a mark. The plan crumbles when his ambition collides with reality, prompting him to fly to Paris for a writer’s retreat that promises a spark for budding talents. Photoshop becomes a tool that floods the feed with content and pulls in a growing audience, including a striking blogger named Colin who captivates the main character. Yet Danny’s ruse spirals as a crisis unfolds when a string of bombings rocks Paris, triggering a surge of nationwide attention for the blogger and drawing her into a new circle, including a 17-year-old activist named Rowan, who survived a school attack.
This film is often described as a blend of flashes of light, trauma, and an abrasive lead. Some critics liken its tonal play to Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag, suggesting that while the energy is high, the material may not reach the same threshold of originality. The writer-director Quinn Shepard crafts a story about living with the conviction that everyone else’s life is greener, and the obsession with perceived status underscores the central critique: the idea that one can measure worth by social comparisons alone.
The movie is unapologetic about its genre boundaries and refuses to shed its satirical edge. It frequently steps outside the comfort zone of conventional rom-coms, leaning into a sharp critique of influencer culture and the performative urgency that comes with online fame. The faux romance line involving Dylan O’Brien’s character reads as predictable at points, yet the satire remains pointed, poking at who we follow, who we trust, and why some narratives feel like default settings for popularity. The film also skewers the mindset that trauma is a credential, a privilege that can be monetized or traded for social leverage.
There is a clear throughline of disillusionment with modern fandom and the shallow signals that accompany it. Danny’s sense of grievance extends to a critique of the systemic landscape, including the insistence that some communities have a louder, more visible voice in the public square while others struggle for airtime. His jealousy toward LGBTQ communities and their sense of belonging—parades, networks, and shared identity—serves as a subtext about belonging and visibility in a culture that rewards sensational narratives.
Despite the abrasive center, the film manages to present moments of honesty through Rowan and a handful of supporting players who resist the urge to worship at the altar of virality. Rowan embodies a different kind of power: the idea that personal pain, when transformed into political and social action, can spark real consequences. The film’s strongest moments arrive when those who oppose gun lobbyist rhetoric speak with conviction, offering a counterbalance to the self-obsession that dominates much of the storytelling.
What sets the work apart from a routine provocateur comedy is its willingness to explore how the term selfish can sneak into every corner of life. The final beat lands with a crisp, ironic honesty that reframes the journey from a blunt joke about vanity into a commentary on attention itself. The movie isn’t pitched as a flawless triumph; it is a brisk, audacious ride that chooses to press on a few uncomfortable nerves rather than retreat into safe territory. And for that, it earns a certain degree of respect. The local reception highlights the film’s willingness to lean into its provocative premise while still delivering a narrative that viewers can discuss long after the credits roll, inviting conversations about ethics, authenticity, and the cost of online fame. [Citation: Film Criticism Journal, 2025]