Directors, actors, and writers are often, in fact, generally ascribed something in the way of an artistic identity, a recognizable style, or distinguishable flair that makes their work recognizable through the screen (or, in critical terms, a lack thereof). Rarely is such a distinction afforded to a film’s producer—often perceived as merely the background figure bankrolling someone else’s artistic sensibilities—but some producers do, indeed, leave a distinctive mark on the films that open with their production logos. You can generally identify a Jerry Bruckheimer or Jason Blum production when you see it.

Some producers, like these, in fact, take such a hands-on approach to artistic pressure that they may even be *the* dominant artistic voice of any production.…Which leads us to Adam Sandler. Sandler may be an iconic comedic figure in front of the camera, but that hasn’t stopped the SNL alum from branching out through his Happy Madison banner and expanding his particular low-effort, tax-deductible filmed vacations to productions that bear that distinctive Sandler comedic inertia regardless of whether he appears onscreen. Most of the company’s output—especially since its 2015 partnership with Netflix—has been dominated by Sandler’s voice by virtue of most current-day comedic directors being studio hands-for-hire, but with “Roommates,” Chandler Levack promised something different, something more distinctively attuned to her own artistic voice.

It certainly doesn’t deliver on that promise by the time its disastrous third act kicks into gear, but for a while, the promise of a valued contribution to the growing pantheon of college coming-of-age tales remains close enough to see once you block out the throbbing sensation of the film’s narrative hangover. Sandler may not be in front of the camera, but his daughter Sadie ensures that all accusations of nepotism remain squarely within reach. As Devon, though, Sandler vividly inhabits the role of a youthful introvert with enough clarity to let those accusations gradually subside.

By the time she graduates high school, Devon has no real friends to call her own, and as freshman orientation begins for her trip to college, she fears that history will repeat itself at this next, supposed reset in her life. Thankfully, help swoops in in the form of Celeste (Chloe East), a blasé cool girl who immediately takes a liking to the more timid Devon. The gals get along so well across that orientation weekend that Devon asks Celeste to be her dorm roommate, and their immediate camaraderie promises instant college memories.

Pretty soon, though, it becomes clear to Devon that these memories may just invoke flashbacks of her difficult adolescence, as the duo’s living situation becomes a bit more volatile than a mere case of unexpected incompatibility. All of this is translated through a framing device in which Sarah Sherman plays a campus teacher retelling Devon’s story to two new freshmen (Storm Reid and Ivy Wolk) who are themselves on the verge of tearing each other to pieces after only a month of living together. This framing device is, of course, completely pointless, devastating to the film’s momentum, and a constant reminder of whose logo opened the film when Devon and Celeste’s tumultuous friendship is halted by Sherman (a current SNL MVP) having to walk her dog because its anus is inflamed.

No matter how much genuine adolescent indecision Levack is able to harness from the primary plot, her efforts are constantly thwarted by the inane Sandler-isms coalescing awkwardly in a storm of Gen-Z brainrot. If the framing device were the only thing bringing “Roommates” to a screeching halt, that would be one issue, but Levack’s ability to tap into a very real anxiety and inconvenience that comes with the discomfort of having to chip away at the veneer of a perfect friendship is constantly being undermined by so many foolish asides. If it’s not some Thanksgiving turkey explosion, it’s a shameless plug for the previous Sandler-Netflix animated blip “Leo” (who doesn’t remember the beloved iguana Leo, after all?).

By the time “Roommates” reaches a climax for these ladies and their flatmate friction, Levack’s more grounded sense of acidity makes way for an absolutely bonkers (derogatory) final stretch that doesn’t stretch the realm of believability in any sort of fun surreal way à la 2023’s high school comedy “Bottoms” (or even the snappy internalized humour of “Mean Girls”), so much as it leans into the sort of “a fart will send someone flying across the room” brand of humour that Sandler has made into his whole brand. Thankfully, that specific bit doesn’t appear here, but things get to be far, far stupider when those final 20 minutes hit.

Whatever “Rommates” is trying to say about the college experience—and is so close to actually articulating—it completely loses the plot in an effort to pander to whoever will laugh with the least concentrated attention. Whatever tangibly relatable discord