NOTE: This blog post is dedicated to D., who has been pestering me for MONTHS to watch this godforsaken movie.  So there.  I did it, and I hope you’re frigging happy.  Any and all resulting loss of brain function from my watching this movie is entirely your fault.

And now, on with the post …

There is an up side and a down side to admitting that you enjoy bad movies.

The up side is that you can connect with fellow bad-movie afficionados who also understand the strange, freewheeling joy that you feel when you watch ridiculous things like Rosey Grier runing around with Ray Milland’s head sewn onto his body, the dogs covered in carpet scraps pretending to be killer shrews, or Mae West and Timothy Dalton singing a love song that would make most normal people run screaming out of the room.

The down side is that when people know that you enjoy bad movies, they start recommending movies that are not the ones you prefer.  Instead, they recommend movies that are jaw-droppingly bad.  Soul-crushingly bad.  “Oh, the humanity!” bad.

By which I mean White Chicks.

White Chicks

Now, for full disclosure, I’ll admit that I tried to watch this movie once before, back when D. was first telling me that it was one of his favorite movies (God help us all, but God help him especially).  I started watching it and … I had to stop.  I mean, it was just getting too stupid.  I felt my brain cells starting to wither and die, one by one.  Do you know how far I got into this movie before I had that reaction, Dear Readers?

I’ll tell you how long.

I had to stop this movie after watching it for one minute and 45 seconds.

ONE MINUTE AND 45 SECONDS, PEOPLE!!!

That was several months ago, and I hadn’t tried to watch it again since then.  But then recently I saw that White Chicks was available on Netflix Instant, so I thought I would try to watch it again.  After all, my curiosity about bad movies has led me on some strange and terrible paths before, in which I watched films that were so bad that they had no redeeming features whatsoever (I’m talking to you, The Adventures of Pluto Nash, The Hottie & the Nottie, and Bucky Larson: Born to Be a Star!)

So … how bad could White Chicks be, really?

Hoo-Boy.

The film opens with that scene I couldn’t sit through the first time around, in which two store employees are being “comically” inept in a “comically” ethnic way when some guys drop by to make an ice cream delivery.  It turns out that the store employees are supposed to be Hispanic (I think), although Indian or Pakistani might have been equally good guesses.  It also turns out that they are really none of those ethnicities at all, as they rip off their disguises and reveal themselves to be some of the least talented members of a very talented family.  Remember how on In Living Color, Shawn and Marlon Wayans were rarely, if ever, given any screen time?  I miss those days.

Ethnic Wayans Brothers

Anyway, the basic jist of the movie is this: every character in this movie is blind, or stupid, or both.

The Wayans brothers play disgraced FBI agents who are supposed to escort  some rich white socialites to the Hamptons, but due to circumstances too ridiculous to explain they end up impersonating the girls, instead.  And NO ONE NOTICES that they’re actually a couple of guys using a lot of makeup and prosthetics in order to achieve that look.  Seriously, these guys look Botoxed and bee-stung within an inch of their lives, and their soulless and glassy blue eyes are particularly terrifying.  If men saw these two in real life, they would probably run as fast as they could in the other direction.  Instead, they spend their time leering at the faux Wilson sisters, saying things like, “Damn, I’d sure like to cut THAT cake!”  [Okay, come on.  Who says that?  Is that even a real expression?]

Botoxed and Bee Stung

Basically, this is a comedy of errors, minus the comedy.  Examples of “hilarity” in this film include:

  • a dog falling out of the window of a moving car and then dangling from its leash
  • people’s faces being contorted as they are smushed up against glass windows
  • an FBI agent reacting to the threat of disciplinary action by pretending to hang himself
  • people using insults like “Your mother shops at Saks!”
  • an extended (and I do mean extended) flatulence scene
  • the line “Don’t hate me ’cause you ain’t me!”
  • a group of (mostly) female characters using a sex toy for a ridiculous demonstration of oral sex techniques
  • a scene involving athlete’s foot that is so disgusting that I will not recount it just in case some of you might be eating right now
  • a scene that was painfully reminiscient of one in Some Like it Hot … except, you know … much stupider
  • God help me, another flatulence scene
  • a new spin on the “once you go black you’ll never go back” concept with some very alarming results

So, in conclusion, my verdict is that this is not a good-bad movie.  It is a bad-bad movie.  It relies on physical comedy that is most likely to appeal to ten- to twelve-year-old boys, so it is most likely to appeal to boys of that demographic or to adults whose mental state matches that of a ten-to twelve-year-old boy (read into that what you will).  It is a ridiculous movie that sat on my brain and tried to crush it.  I am stupider just for having watched this movie.  My morale has taken a hit.  And there is a little less joy in the world.

Smushed

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and rewatch The Thing With Two Heads just to cheer myself up.

Advertisements