Hi, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab...
Our esteemed Mr. Beaks has been seeing tons and tons of films lately, most of them early, and over the weekend, he managed to see every 13 year old boy’s wettest dream, the new CHARLIE’S ANGELS film. I love the fetish wear ad campaign and the way each new TV spot is cut to a different kick-ass tune (“My Sharona” is ruined for me now... I’ll always think of the Angels first), but I’m hearing very mixed word on how the final film plays. Personally, I’m rooting for McG. Unlike a lot of the so-called “music video hacks,” I think he’s got a great sense of fun and a pretty sharp eye. So how did he do? Well, here’s Beaks to clue us in...
CHARLIE’S ANGELS: FULL THROTTLE (d. McG, w. John August, Cormac Wibberley & Marianne Wibberley)
“Get off the babysitter. Daddy’s home.” So sayeth Lucy Liu’s vampish Alex Munday at the outset of Harry Knowles’s most anticipated sequel of the summer, CHARLIE’S ANGELS: FULL THROTTLE. Having just emerged from a wooden crate delivered into the basement of a Northern Mongolian tavern, and looking every inch the stunner in a black leather get-up accentuated by a laced-up-the-front blouse, Liu is game and gamine as ever. It appears McG and his own heroic trio are picking up right where they left off in the fall of 2000; full mast for the boys, faux-female empowerment for the girls. As the scene proceeds under the director’s smooth guidance, we learn that Alex has arrived to rescue a government operative played by funky runnin’ Robert Patrick, while up top in the bar, her co-horts, Dylan Sanders (Drew Barrymore) and Natalie Cook (Cameron Diaz), are distracting the…. well, Mongol horde with the weapon that trumps all of their kung-fu expertise combined: sex. So, as a Sweedish-accented Natalie rides a mechanical bull, Dylan keeps the overheated drunks aflame by doing her best Marion Ravenwood. Watching it unfold is a shamelessly kinky treat.
The appeal of the first CHARLIE’S ANGELS, and the reason I have no problem defending it against those few killjoy critics who were somehow aghast that the film had precious little to sell other than the anatomical attributes of its three stars, is that, somewhere between the hiring of writer number fourteen and fifteen, the filmmakers, multitudinous though they were, realized that they needn’t aspire to crafting a high quality motion picture. In response, they shifted gears, understood their limitations, and devoted every ounce of overpaid energy toward making an entertaining version of those bloated and tiresome cinematic celebrity gang bangs of the 60’s and 70’s (e.g. CASINO ROYALE or THE BIG BUS). This meant more Crispin Glover, more spontaneous and incongruous dance numbers, and, at the potential risk of weaponizing Knowles’s libido, as much of Cameron Diaz’s “swirling ass” as the MPAA would allow before invoking some little known codicil that prohibits an inordinately disproportionate rump-to-narrative ratio. Who cares if the finished film had all the nutritional value of scarfing down a mixing bowlful of Snowballs and chocolate milk? It utilized the talents of its various guest performers to almost maximum potential (Bill Murray being the sole exception), while letting the boundless charm of its stars carry the day.
Why, then, does FULL THROTTLE go so damn limp so quickly after that crackerjack opening, even as it continues to exude the same sexy confidence of its predecessor? Probably because the original was fortunate enough to succeed on its own meager merits, and sequelizing, while a given, was probably a far more precarious proposition than anyone realized, and this time the elements simply fail to add up into a satisfying whole.
This time out, the Angels are charged with tracking down a mysterious thief bent on raiding the FBI’s Witness Protection Program database, which isn’t a terribly sexy premise until ex-juvenile delinquent Dylan reveals that she has been a beneficiary of this system. But this is all terribly irrelevant. What matters, of course, is what wacky scenarios requiring provocative fetish gear will the Angels be forced into? How about a day at the beach searching for a murderous surfer? Or a random motocross race run by pop chanteuse Pink. Or, getting brazenly to the point, a performance with the Pussycat Dolls at a gentlemen’s club frequented by horny Irish dockworkers? As in the first movie, producer Barrymore and her gal pals delight in playing dress-up before getting down and dirty with some unconvincing wire-fu, and their enthusiasm is genuinely infectious. They haven’t lost a slinky step.
But there’s a good deal missing this time out, and we might as well start with Sam Rockwell, whose chemistry with Barrymore in particular was so winning, George Clooney had the good sense to team them up again in CONFESSIONS OF A DANGEROUS MIND. As the loopy heartthrob substitute, Justin Theroux isn’t bad at all, and I’m sure he’ll more than satisfy females with his impressively sculpted physique. (Who knew what lurked beneath Adam Kersher’s pretentious designer wear? He should’ve been able to take Billy Ray Cyrus to the woodshed with those pipes! Here endeth your MULHOLLAND DRIVE moment.) But his dorky looking, mousse-mohawked Irishman routine ceases to amuse fairly quickly, and what surrounds him is even less inspired.
Yes, it is with a heavy, heavy heart that I inform you of Bernie Mac’s criminal misuse in this film. As the new Bosley, Mac replaces the cranky Bill Murray with the same blustery personality that helps make him such a comedic powerhouse. But the bits into which they’ve painted him are so woefully pat, he’s left riffing in a creative vacuum. Only once does he fire off a classic improv (paraphrased: “I hope the Angels aren’t giving you too hard a time”, nudges Charlie as the nubile girls climb all over Bosley, to which he unflappably responds, “Nah, I’m into fat women.”) Meanwhile, they also manage the near-impossible feat of letting Crispin Glover get lost in the mayhem, though he does have a pretty wonderful moment late in the film involving his hair fetish.
This leaves it up to the unflaggingly energetic Cameron Diaz to raise the film out of its humorless doldrums, and, when called on, which isn’t frequently enough, she delivers. Though recently roughed up for her work in GANGS OF NEW YORK, Diaz is right at home as Natalie, swirling that ass with assiduous aplomb (there’s a shot that seems as if it was placed expressly for El Grande Rojo), but, more importantly, evincing that bubbly innocence that rightly makes her one of the more engaging stars going. One needs look no further than her exultant, stumbled-into dance number set to Donna Summer’s “Last Dance” for simultaneous proof that Diaz is a dynamically likeable and depressingly underutilized performer. It’s an ecstatic high point that the film winds up chasing through to its flabby finale.
The filmmakers most grievous sin is how, working with a slightly larger budget this time out, they give into the misguided impulse of exponentially upping the action quotient, which completely plays against the strengths of the previous picture. Aside from an enjoyably elaborate warehouse brawl, the set-pieces are drawn out and poorly staged. The worst offender is the motocross race, which drags on with a cacophonous monotony that dubiously recalls the pod race from THE PHANTOM MENACE.
Of course, the film’s most expensive special effect may be the new and improved Demi Moore, who is shown remarkable deference in that she’s shot with more care than the three leads. But while she looks undeniably fantastic, she also adds a pronounced touch of vanity to a production that works best when it’s hoodwinking the audience into thinking the whole endeavor is just a big-budget play date for its stars.
This applies to the director, as well. I’m actually kind of relieved that he’s out of the SUPERMAN sweepstakes, but the widespread assertion that McG is some kind of hack is clearly unfounded when he lets loose on a musical number, or blithely transitions from scene to scene with a well-chosen song cue. Though I fear he probably blew a good portion of the budget on clearing all of these great tunes, he’s got a pretty unerring ear for evocative 80’s pop. As he inevitably climbs upward from what will undoubtedly be a huge success (despite my many misgivings, nearly every female I talked to post-screening simply loved this movie), I’d like to see him flee the action genre, and tackle one of the many musicals currently in development, though I suspect a third roll at this crap table may cancel all of this out. If that ends up being the case, I’ll place my bets elsewhere.
Faithfully submitted,
Mr. Beaks
Yikes. Not what I was hoping to hear. I know I’m seeing this one on opening weekend, come hell or highwater, so I’ll keep my fingers crossed that the Swirling Ass hypnotizes me into enjoying myself.
"Moriarty" out.
