There’s an art to making a successful guilty pleasure. It requires equal parts good and bad. The good parts must be slickly satisfying, tapping into some basic craving we all secretly share. The bad parts must be bad in an extravagantly over-the-top way. (However, if the film knows it’s bad, it can quickly turn into camp—and then we’re stuck with the insufferable rib-nudging of, say, a
Sharknado.) And that’s why The Boy Next Door works so well. When it’s good, it’s very good. But when it’s bad—you guessed it—it’s better.
Jennifer Lopez plays Claire Peterson, a high school English teacher (she specializes in the classics—hold that thought), separated from her husband Garrett (John Corbett) because he cheated on her with his secretary. She found out Garrett was cheating when she saw some emails he had sent his lover, whom he described as smelling like “chocolate-chip cookies” (hold—and treasure—that thought, too). So, despite being played by the luscious Lopez, the 40ish Claire is set up as feeling a bit insecure about her own sexuality, her
own ability to evoke baked goods.
Enter Noah (Ryan Guzman), the titular boy next door—although he’s hardly a boy at all (“I’m 19, going on 20” he reports)— who’s in town to take care of his sickly uncle. He immediately takes Claire’s impressionable teenage son Kevin (Ian Nelson) under his wing and later gives Claire a “first edition” copy of
The Iliad—a groaner so far-fetched you have to wonder if maybe the film does know how ridiculous it is. Claire’s window is right across from Noah’s (of course it is), so first she sees him gently tucking his uncle in (such a good lad!) and later she sees him getting undressed (such a good ass!). He notices her noticing him and, well…we’re off.
Why cookies are a metaphor for sex and desirability throughout this film, I honestly have no clue, but, after a particularly bad blind date, Claire forlornly sniffs a chocolate chip cookie. (No,
really.) Then she skulks over to Noah’s house in the rain. He seduces her and she protests, half-heartedly, as his hands slide down her torso. The great sex is not incidental here— it’s the film’s raison d’être. (If that sex scene weren’t smokin’ hot, the whole film would crumble.)
We all know what happens next. Noah becomes dangerously obsessed—and more crazed with each passing day, especially since Claire is trying to reconcile with the genuinely remorseful Garrett. The fate of Claire’s suspicious best friend (Kristin Chenoweth, with bad hair) is also written in stone. But much to the film’s credit, it’s not Garrett who saves the day—Claire can take care of herself. Calling
The Boy Next Door feminist would be a stretch, but while it punishes Claire for her indiscretion, it aims to empower her, too.
I could tick off all the film’s absurdities—Claire’s refusal to call the cops even when her son’s life is clearly in danger borders on criminal; the big, no-brainer reveal about the car crash Noah’s parents were in comes about an hour too late; the cookie metaphors just keep piling up. (“I love your mother’s cookies,” Noah says to Kevin, with a wink.) But remember, the badness is part of the goodness. Just pretend the film is a batch of fresh chocolate chip cookies and dig in.