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The staggeringly brilliant maneuver with which director Mort Nathan (Boat Trip) and first-time writer David Drew Gallagher avoid the gaping hole left by their primary talent is to transfer teaching assistant Taj Mahal Badalandabad (Penn, undoing any and all comedic credibility he established with the underrated Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle) overseas to England’s Camford University. There, he is charged with improving the social status of the campus outcasts whilst simultaneously bringing the ever-present elitists down a notch or two by competing in a series of unlikely contests for the coveted Hastings Cup.

Perhaps the only thing more disconcerting than the exhausting innuendos that spill out of Taj’s mouth is the ever-tedious application of every campus comedy cliché under the sun. Surely, the outcasts shall best the yuppies (Revenge of the Nerds, Animal House) and every geek will stumble across a significant other/fuck buddy in the process, and of course, their fearless leader manages to woo the girlfriend of the lead prick (August’s Accepted, and even the original Van Wilder). There isn’t a single frame of this film that employs anything resembling an original concept or creative idea, and such meticulous adherence to formula swiftly begets an equally laborious viewing experience.

Taj is no longer the relatively endearing luckless lover, but a cocky authority figure with nary a discernable appealing quality save for his knack for rampant sex euphemisms, each less sensible than the last. As such, he’s best suited for leading his motley gang of freaks and geeks that have maybe one dimension of character between them, given that you round up. There’s the shrill but busty harpy (Holly Davidson), the aggressive alcoholic rugby player (Glen Barry), the stiff dweeb (Anthony Cozens), and the oft-silent incompetent (Steven Rathman) whose blood rushes from one head to the other, resulting in sporadic fainting.

Making matters worse is the exceedingly generic alt-rock soundtrack and a string of beyond juvenile gags, from the frat’s name of the Cock & Bulls (get it?) and paintballs to the groin (barely amusing in September’s School for Scoundrels, especially less so here), to a half-assed replication of its predecessor’s admittedly amusing canine semen gag with a dog named Balzac, not because it has anything to do with the French playwright, but because it’s simply hysterical to utter a name that sounds like “ball sack” every five minutes. (Hell, my generation probably believes that Franz Ferdinand must have been named after the band, so it’s with some conviction that I suggest that any Balzac reference can and will soar over their skulls.) At least the agonizing Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo was creatively crude and crass, if only in comparison, which makes The Rise of Taj’s relentless insistence on clichés that much more wearisome. Nathan even manages to make the gratuitous breast displays the least titillating they could possibly be, and that is something which takes some considerable aptitude to accomplish.

The sole half-inspired moment is a 'Dead Poets Society' reference, but even that manages to be driven deep into the ground within a good thirty seconds. In every other conceivable respect, 'Van Wilder 2: The Rise of Taj' is the epitome of laziness and quite possibly the very antithesis of humor.

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originally posted: 12/15/06 23:28:14
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