If we learn anything from David Wnendt's film adaptation of the Charlotte Roche novel, it's that the line between gross-out comedy and erotic drama is as thin as a stray pube on the scuzziest public toilet the movies have seen since Trainspotting. It wants to be a punk-feminist yawp of shamelessness about bodily fluids and functions, but so much strenuous provocation doesn't keep Wetlands from also being twee.
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