The Onion Reviews Angels and Idols

[Guest notJames]

Inspired by KANE's posting of their review of Metallica's new album, I thought I'd post the Onion's latest reviews of Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle and From Justin To Kelly. Having seen CA:FT for free (I snuck in for a lark after viewing The Hulk), I can honestly say they hit the nail right on the head. All flash and no substance, and what flash they had was fleeting and forgettable. And I'll take their word on the American Idol flick… no amount of tomfoolery could make me sit through that tripe.

 

On with the reviews:

 

Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle

In his 2002 novel The Russian Debutante's Handbook, Gary Shteyngart refers to 1993 as "the first year when mocking the mainstream had become the mainstream." A decade later, the Charlie's Angels films represent a crisis point for that way of thinking. Like its microscopically more enjoyable predecessor, Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle stitches together send-ups, cheeky references, unreflective irony, half-hearted sexiness, and fashion kitsch into a passable semblance of a movie. It's not so much fun as "fun." It might have worked if there were any brains behind it, but two features and one legendarily awful TV show into his post-music-video career, director McG once again proves that for him, any kind of thought is an afterthought. He seems content to repeat nearly every moment of his first Charlie's Angels movie, and so does everyone else: Drew Barrymore again plays the unconvincing tough chick, Cameron Diaz dances at every opportunity (and the film gives her a good half-dozen chances), and Lucy Liu does whatever it is that she does. Even Bernie Mac, taking over the Bosley role, reprises Bill Murray's habit of looking embarrassed at the material he's forced to perform. Remarkably, an actual detail of the plot—which has Barrymore taking on an Irish mobster ex-boyfriend (Mulholland Dr.'s Justin Theroux) who forced her into the Witness Protection Program—leads to the film's worst moment. When Barrymore reveals her real name to be "Helen Zass," the other characters spend what feels like half an hour trading BUTT puns, raising the possibility that a class of third-graders might have had a hand in doctoring the script. The film is smart enough to know that verbal humor isn't its strong point, but it doesn't offer much in the way of compensation. Obvious parodies of CSI and Cape Fear muscle against action scenes chaotic enough to make Michael Bay look like Robert Bresson, not to mention stuntwork too clearly created by a roomful of iMacs. Where Bay traffics in two-second shots, McG seems determined to cut that in half, barely giving audiences time to focus on what's on screen. That may be a blessing, but if he keeps up this pace, he'll have to start putting seizure warnings before the credits. It's probably worth mentioning that a robotically toned Demi Moore resurfaces here. She looks like she's doing well, but she can go away again any time she likes. —Keith Phipps

 

From Justin To Kelly

So, are the dating rumors true? It's a sign of the deep cynicism and desperation behind From Justin To Kelly, a spectacularly awful musical-comedy built around American Idol slaves Justin Guarini and Kelly Clarkson, that such a question could ever be dignified with a response. Moving from the antiseptic environs of reality television into the natural light, Guarini and Clarkson behave like sheepish animals forced to mate in captivity; they kiss as if their lips were made of wilted brussels sprouts. As with this year's other Spring Break cheapie, The Real Cancun, cinema proves again to be the great leveler of bad TV, cutting down the network bean-counters hoping to find new revenue streams in a medium that lays their hubris bare. Deemed unsuitable for critics—who, according to Clarkson, "only like stuff like In The Bedroom"—this stinking piece of pop-culture flotsam washes ashore on Miami Beach, where the would-be sweethearts meet among the throngs of wholesome, freshly scrubbed revelers. They're from two different worlds: Guarini, the self-styled "King Of Spring Break," must relinquish his crown to have any chance with Clarkson, a good-girl Texan whom friends describe as "a body shot away from Amish." Referring to themselves as the "Pennsylvania Posse," Guarini and his buddies (sensitive nerd Brian Dietzen and chiseled ladies' man Greg Siff) throw beachside events, such as a whipped-cream bikini contest and a "Margarita Madness" party that appears to have been sponsored by the Women's Christian Temperance Union. For her part, the squeaky-clean Clarkson gets dragged into this den of PG-rated sin by a starry-eyed romantic (Anika Noni Rose) and a duplicitous blonde tramp (Katherine Bailess) who does everything she can to separate the lovebirds. But the by-the-numbers plotting, courtesy of Spice World screenwriter Kim Fuller (brother of evil-genius Idol producer Simon Fuller), exists only to lead the audience to what it really wants to see: canned orchestrations, syrupy beach ballads, strangled octaves, and plenty of robotic, boy-band bump-and-grind. The two leads, fulfilling their indentured servitude to the Fox Corporation, look distinctly uncomfortable forcing chemistry with each other, as well as croaking a cheesy sunset duet about "timeless" love as if they're bound to the terms of a restraining order. It doesn't help that director Robert Iscove (She's All That) converts Miami Beach into an art-deco revamp of Branson, Missouri, removing the suggestion that these teens belong to the same species as the sex monsters in The Real Cancun. More than anything, From Justin To Kelly needs Simon Cowell, the fork-tongued Idol judge who gives the show its only sliver of tension. Perhaps he can be convinced to offer a few withering appraisals on the DVD commentary track; goodness knows, even Paula Abdul can't be counted on for encouragement here. —Scott Tobias

[Guest godthedog]

wow: the hatred for michael bay...the hatred for quick cutting...the hatred for obvious CGI...was this review written by my long-lost twin?