Twelve, by Nick McDonnell, is not a particularly good book. (My personal, snotty theory is that McDonnell got the book deal in the first place because his father edited Sports Illustrated and family friends have included people like P.J. O’Rourke, George Plimpton, and Hunter S. Thompson.) “Twelve” the movie looks marginally better, if only because it means we can stare at Chace Crawford‘s lovely face for two hours. He plays a rich Upper East Side kid who gets in over his head selling drugs to the kids of his social milieu — kind of like a two-hour-long episode of “Gossip Girl” if only Nate Archibald were more like Chuck Bass.
Poor Chace has gotta be sick of playing the same role over and over and over again, though. Will somebody cast the poor dear in a sci-fi flick or something?