My Fault: London Parent Guide

Eighteen-year-old Noah’s (Asha Banks) mother (Eve Macklin) has remarried, and now Noah is being hauled across the Atlantic from her home in Florida to spend some time with her new stepfather, William (Ray Fearon) in England. He seems ok, but his son, Nick (Matthe Broome) is a surly, rude, and thoroughly unwelcoming snob. Noah already feels alone and far from home, and this icy reception doesn’t help. But as Nick and Noah get to know one another, they find they have a great deal in common – maybe too much in common.

This tired flick has all the human warmth, storytelling ability, and utter banality of a Hollister commercial. Generically attractive people wander around to a basically constant soundtrack, occasionally exchanging some truly fetid pap (which I believe was supposed to be dialogue) for two hours. What a hideous experience, what a devaluation of the tragic span of a life. Where will I be able to buy another two hours to replace these I have lost so unwisely? Truly, time is the fire in which we burn.

In return for losing those irretrievable moments of my fleeting existence, I got to be both blinded by utter vapidity and nauseated by the ordeal. Nick and Noah are awful to one another, and nearly everyone else in their lives, and more to the point, are stepsiblings. Gross, gross, and quite gross. This production might hold interest to anthropologists of the future as a showcase of the unfathomable depths to which we are capable of sinking in materialistic vanity, but I can’t say I’d recommend this kind of spelunking for a recreational audience.

As the title suggests, somebody is certainly at fault here, and for them I can find no forgiveness in the shriveled husk which was my heart at the beginning of the film. The details of the show’s negative content hardly matter – although it is in every way unsuitable for a family audience – in the shadow of the horror of the writing. Frequent sexual content, violence, and profanity are certainly unwelcome, but that’s not what made me want to start wandering the moors and raving incoherently. I’ve rarely seen a film so incessantly aggravating, so deliberately wretched, and so utterly without redeeming features. Now, if anyone has some free time, do you think you could come by and put me out of my misery?