Sunday, July 5, 2015

O.H.M. Movie Review: Magic Mike 2

Hot mess does not begin to describe the 130 minutes of waxed ass cheeks and hilarious dry humping montages that is Magic Mike 2. Spoiler alert: Channing Tatum is ripped, waxed, and tan; and if you're a gay man or a bachelorette you should hire him for your next party.
 

Conspicuously absent from this film--which I'm not ashamed to admit was the first non-Pixar movie I've seen in a theater in over four years--was Matthew McConaughey of Magic Mike 1. Why? Because his agent read the first two pages of the script, tore them up, and stuck them in the bathroom of Matt's trailer for later use as emergency Charmin. 

I mean, Matt didn't turn himself into a stick of beef jerky to play an AIDS activist in The Dallas Buyer's Club for the kale smoothies and spin classes. I'm no Hollywood casting director, but I'm confident that Magic Mike 2 is not project greenlight when you're trying to thank the academy.

And that's why Magic Mike 2 was just Channing Tatum in an RV with a bunch of no-name pecs and abs plucked from an open casting call for a Playgirl beefcake calendar. One of my friends who was with me hadn't seen Magic Mike 1, and was concerned she might be confused as a result. I can assure you--as I did her--that is not the case. 

Allow me to dispense with the plot in three sentences: The absence of Matt and Channing's girlfriend from Magic Mike 1 is explained immediately. Channing then takes a bro road trip (BROad trip?) in an artisanal frozen yogurt truck with the pecs posse for one last weekend of stripper mayhem--to a fucking STRIPPER CONVENTION in Myrtle Beach, SC. Along the way, there are hijinx, mesh thongs, Channing in a sideways baseball cap, and Jada Pinkett-Smith with scary long fingernails. The end.

The plot is really an excuse to see this group of men naked and gyrating as often as possible, and much like Cinemax soft-core, everything that happens is just biding time until the next scene where these guys take their clothes off.

Detour: My friends got me a stripper for my 21st birthday and he looked NOTHING like this. He had iced tips in his hair and was wearing a polyester cop uniform that bore no resemblance to a real cop uniform. He did jump on me and incorporate whipped cream into his routine, so I was able to get a good look at his neon pink thong and the tan-line wax marks where he had obviously manscaped the area around his asshole. The image is burned into my brain forever, and I was crying with laughter and disgust. 

Kind of like the one and only time I briefly dated a guy with a body vaguely approximating a male stripper's. He was an aspiring dentist named Rob and the ancient age of 28 at the time. My fellow college roommates and I called him "Rob two-eight." I remember thinking his body felt like a greasy mannequin. It made me insecure, intrigued, and vaguely grossed out all at the same time, but I guess that's how they make 'em in Providence, RI.

Anyway, back to the movie.

Naturally, Channing has a love interest--a small-chested, boho chic bisexual white photographer whom he met while urinating at the beach and who later improbably eats an entire red velvet cake straight from the box despite weighing 110 pounds.

The strippers work on original routines to express themselves, because played out stripper standbys like "fireman" are too confining for their creative spirit. So each stripper incorporates his own little "personality" into the mix of his routine. Basically they kill it at Myrtle and leave the stripper convention in a hailstorm of dollah billz, which they promptly celebrate by watching some fireworks to coincide with the July 4 weekend release of this movie.

That was it. Seriously. And it was worth every fucking penny of my $11.50 movie ticket. (Bonus: it's a refreshing change to see men portrayed as objectified morons in a movie for once). Do not wait for this to come out on Netflix or Amazon Prime. Get drunk and see it tonight!



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