But where Sierra Burgess Is a Loser begins to shed its wholesome veneer is in the ruse that brings its two leads together: When Jamey asks the resident mean-girl cheerleader, Veronica (Kristine Froseth), for her phone number at a café one afternoon, she sneakily gives him Sierra’s instead. Sierra, whom Veronica regularly taunts at school, receives a text from Jamey—a hot boy she’d otherwise never meet—and soon realizes he thinks he’s texting Veronica. Rather than inform him of the mistake, Sierra simply continues to text Jamey as Veronica. Jamey’s relationship with Sierra-as-Veronica deepens, leading to long, frequent phone calls.
In a surprising twist on hierarchy-based high-school friendships, Sierra is successful in enlisting Veronica’s help with her scheme, offering to tutor the cheerleader in exchange for her cooperation. (Their complicated friendship, a rarity in teen films, is one of the bright spots of the film.) Jamey, blissfully unaware, falls hard for the smart girl texting him—and the less brainy, more conventionally attractive avatar sent to represent her. Sierra and Veronica keep him in the dark. Without the benefit—the basic courtesy—of the truth, he cannot make an informed decision about where to direct his affections.
Films, and even romantic comedies, have featured far more high-stakes trickery than the ploy at work in this teen drama. That Sierra Burgess Is a Loser finds its leads entering a complicated relationship spurred by catfishing isn’t necessarily troubling. Many relationships involve some level of deception at their outset; Sierra’s is dramatic, but there could have been room for her to course-correct early on in the film. In effectively skewering Sierra’s deception, Beer and Samuels could’ve offered meaningful commentary on the damage wrought by any number of duplicities.
But Sierra doesn’t seem to experience any genuine contrition; she revels in self-pity, convinced her insecurities justify her manipulative behavior. The film avoids the route of self-motivated confession and instead buries Sierra’s reveal well into the third act. It’s a strange choice, one that obscures any real insights about the effects of bullying and low self-esteem on teens. Rather, Sierra Burgess offers an accidental lesson in the dangers of glossing over consent simply because it’s baked into the context of a Nice Person’s personal development.
Much of the film is cringeworthy, and not in the instructive, empathetic manner of Bo Burnham’s Eighth Grade. While the many insults hurled at Sierra certainly sting (and a number of them raise troubling questions about the film’s obsession with mocking queer, trans, and disabled people), none of them justifies her glaring disregard for Jamey’s autonomy, bodily or otherwise. In perhaps the most disturbing scene of the movie, Veronica and Jamey lean against the hood of his Jeep after their first date at the movies. While the two chat, Sierra, who had also been sitting in the theater to surveil the pair, lies underneath the car. When Jamey moves in to kiss Veronica, she pulls away and insists he close his eyes. As soon as he does, she gestures to Sierra to take her place when Jamey, eyes covered, tries for another kiss. The kiss lands, but the scene doesn’t.