A bunch of beefy saliva-making men – served buffet-style – sounds good. But when it involves the two innuendo-laced words “Eating Out”? Not so much. And so here we have it (even though it’s hard to imagine who’d want it):
“Eating Out 3: All You Can Eat,” part of a long-burned-out series that prides itself on being the first gay-themed theatrical trilogy. That’s right – they half-assed three films that suck more than their hunky, gay characters. Congratulations.
The spent third, out on Nov. 10, is as limp as the penises in it, with a shallow, predictable script that could only be worse if it didn’t have abysmal acting distracting from some of the gag-me gabbing and un-punchy punch lines.
Unwisely, it borrows elements and subplots from the first stimulating-but-fleeting film and the better – but still pretty bad – second one. Do you even care? Do you watch an “Eating Out” trilogy for redemptive value, for the acting, for its brains? Hell no.
You want hot freeze-frame-worthy action and gratuitous shots of cock (sadly, your appetite will only be whet).
So, the story – who cares? But if you must: Dorky dude Casey (Daniel Skelton), a toothy twink, seduces Zack (Chris Salvatore) online. The catch is: Zack thinks Casey is hotter than he really is because his profile pic was actually of his fag hag’s ex-boyfriend (Michael Walker). When Zack finds out, Casey has to dig himself out of a deep, deep hole (boys, you know the kind) and try to reclaim his crush’s trust before he can get in his pants. But wait, where’s the first two films’ Kyle (Jim Verraros of “American Idol”)? He’s gone. Dead.
It’s better this way, because the singer-turned-actor saved himself from even sloppier seconds; an endless, listless, mindless 80-minutes that’s like listening to someone go on and on and on without having anything good to say. “Eating Out” talks itself to death. And then it talks some more. It’s like, shut up already – and suck. That, it does.
Only sometimes does it cha-ching with some half-baked zinger or humorous rant – Leslie Jordan, Casey’s confidante, rips on the Miley Cyrus hoopla, and Mink Stole, as Kyle’s mom and Casey’s aunt, gives a hilariously inappropriate eulogy during the un-PC funeral scene.
With her one-liners and saucy spunk, the dirty-mouthed Tiffani (Rebekah Kochan), who takes Casey under her slutified wings and tries to win him his crush, is the best thing going for this ridiculous, inept bomb. But, even then, who really wants to hear her sing a sexed-up take on “Kumbaya” – with the “kum” replaced with “cum”? Anyone? Anyone?
Way worse, though, are the two duller-than-sandstone male leads. Salvatore isn’t turn-off-DVD-now bad as the hunky, desperately-seeking-dude homo, but Skelton is as expressionless as a brick wall, robotically delivering lines like a construction worker builds roads – just going through the motions: “Look at me, I’m acting. This is acting.”
He’s supposed to convey endearing, sweet-and-shy cuteness, but he comes across as moronic and annoying. And his doe-in-headlights look surfaces so often you have to wonder if he really was surprised … that he actually made it in front of a camera. Because he doesn’t belong there. And neither did this starved farce.