Apparently the myth of the American sleepover is that its volume can rise above a whisper. This film tries so hard for understated adolescent authenticity that it forgets those first tentative steps into adulthood tend to be just as clumsily vibrant as they are furtively awkward. For a story that spans several nocturnal teenage gatherings on the last weekend of summer, it is remarkably – and fatally – sedate. I have no lack of patience for quiet contemplation on film (and I’m a sucker for a good coming-of-age tale), but The Myth of the American Sleepover’s absence of animation only underscores how little it has to say. It is excruciating in all the wrong ways.