Kay reviews films in 100 words or less.
The progression was predictable. Intelligent, young, wealthy men, part of a centuries-old dining club committed to “debauchery raised to an art form,” let loose in a pub where the libations flowed freely and so did their warped privilege. I thought it was another instance of Brits doing things better than everyone else. In this case, getting smashed with sexy accents and spewing eloquent word vomit. But The Riot Club did have one saving grace: its ending. It transformed the story from a dinner gone wrong to an account of a veiled reality infamously perpetuated by power and the right connections.