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You’ll likely laugh a lot while watching Pumpkin,
but in order to understand what the film is trying to accomplish,
it’s important to ask yourself what it is you’re laughing
at. After all, here’s a film that attacks society’s perceptions
of what constitutes the term “different”—whether it be color,
size, or mental acuity—and wrings laughs from it, an objective
that can only result in one of two things: an enlightened
narrative or an offensive one.
An offensive narrative would ridicule its subjects, making
them into stereotypes who don’t warrant compassion so much
as condescension. An enlightened narrative, on the other hand,
mocks those who do the condescending, giving a voice to their
obvious biases so that the audience hates them, not
the people they disdain.
Certainly, there has been debate regarding which side of
the fence Pumpkin stands on, but I believe the film
comfortably rests within the enlightened camp. It’s a smart
movie—reminiscent of, if not as good as, Election—a
razor-sharp commentary on the often vanilla-bland vacuity
of sororities and the transparent “good” they try to do through
community service.
The sorority in Pumpkin is the fictional Alpha Omega
Phi, whose sisters include fanatical president Julie Thurber
(Coughlan), frizzy-haired rebel Jeanine Kryszinsky
(Swain), token minority Anne Chung (Krusiec),
and perpetually perky Carolyn McDuffy (Ricci). Julie
is determined that Alpha Omega Phi win Sorority of the Year,
a prize she thinks is in the bag after choosing the Challenged
Games as its charity, as well as securing two minority rushes
(she comforts herself by noting that the Filipino candidate
has “cute, Caucasian features”).
It’s through the Challenged Games that Carolyn meets Pumpkin
Romanoff (Harris), whose event is the discus despite
the fact that he is mostly confined to a wheelchair. At first,
Carolyn is unnerved by Pumpkin, but then she begins to fall
for his inner beauty, compassion, and most of all, his flattering
remarks about her. She tries to overcome her feelings by setting
him up with her date-challenged friend Cici Pinkus (McCarthy),
but fails to tell her that he is mentally handicapped (“Cici,
you know what rejection is like,” Carolyn explains). Despite
her efforts, Carolyn can’t help falling for Pumpkin, which
angers her tennis star boyfriend Kent Woodlands (Ball),
Pumpkin’s alcoholic mother Judy (Blethyn), and the
rest of her sorority.
Sick of life at her “judgmental” university, Carolyn decides
to leave school and attend community college, an effort foiled
by the fact that she has too many credits. Instead, she transfers
to Long Beach Tech, where she spends her time longing for
Pumpkin and writing atrociously bad poetry (the pure awfulness
of her “Ode to Pasadena” rivals Julia Stiles’ climactic final
poem in 10 Things I Hate About You).
Pumpkin works so well because it not only addresses
what many consider the last remaining taboo, but also the
various movie clichés audiences are force-fed on a weekly
basis (Kent’s vehicular fate is a perfect example). At the
same time, it provides us with situations that are far from
cliché and definitely not predictable. The characters may
be dumb, but the movie is smart, mostly because its inherent
goofiness is part of the in-joke (it’s not very often that
you find a film in which the smartest character is mentally
challenged).
The acting, too, is stellar, especially by Ricci who revels
in Carolyn’s dumb blond routine, and by Ball, whose good-guy
portrayal of Kent makes it even more surprising when the character
goes bad (he was also phenomenal in the underappreciated Urbania).
Coughlan also does a good job as the bitchy Julie, and Harris
brings both a sympathetic and deftly humorous edge to Pumpkin.
I’m certain that many people will feel uncomfortable after
seeing Pumpkin—to laugh or not to laugh, that is the
question. It’s a film that makes you contemplate how you should
feel about it, and in the end, that’s okay. After all, it’s
better than most movies, which don’t make you think at all.
—Erin Steele
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