Twenty-five years ago, Demi Moore huddled in an empty room with billowing curtains for Joel Schumacher's "St
. Elmo's Fire" and an iconic if cheeseball visual cue for spoiled-youth loneliness was born. In "Twelve," the director's latest dive into the indiscretions of adolescent brats, the possibilities are endless: a drug-addled teenage girl's hallucination that her stuffed bears are talking to her, a broodingly handsome drug dealer's mopey timeout in a street-construction hole or maybe that hair-trigger rich kid in the police interrogation room breaking down on a phone call from absent Daddy. So much to choose from.