It's Alive! - Scarier Movie
"Keenen Ivory Wayans is one of the greatest comedy directors of all time," raves producer Rick Alvarez in the White Chicks press booklet. Whoever heard of slouches like Billy Wilder? "It was an easy concept to sell." Sure it was. Some Like It Hot, 1959—that gave them forty-five years to think it over.
To writer/performer Kay Thompson's declaration, "the only 'ism' Hollywood practices is plagiarism," White Chicks submits a post script: racism and vulgarism.
FBI agents Shawn and Marlon Wayans (Scary Movie), on the skids from a bogus bust, are assigned to escort two white socialites to the weekend of all weekends in the Hamptons, because the melanin-challenged pair are the potential objects of a kidnapping scheme. En route, the sisters' dog flies out the window, and since the Wayans brother driving does not think to stop the car as it dangles by a leash, the car is sent tumbling from the road, injuring the socialites' faces. The blondes refuse to be seen in this manner, so the brothers decide to pose as white chicks in the Hamptons to uncover the kidnapping scheme themselves.
Marlon and Shawn Wayans are convincing as Aryan anorexics like two rhinos pass in a puppy mill. However, the audience is expected to believe that the mavens of fashion inhabiting this culture of Beluga and bulimia swallow the scheme whole—no laxatives required. Right.
The excuse for this gimmick, formerly known as plot, could not be made plausible by all of the prosthetics in Beverly Hills. It seems to have been pieced together from every crime-team flick ever made, with details as sparse as an incarnation of Mission Impossible, leaving the audience member relying on his knowledge of other movies to deduce what the shizzle is going on.
What plot there is is sublimated to the humor, which ranges from broad, racist and cliché to plumbing the depths of the potty. But to top it all off—as if this Frankenstein monster needed hair extensions—White Chicks tries to have a touching theme. You guessed it: the Wayans brothers love each other. Oh, and secondly: don't just be a "booty call"—think outside the botox.
The result is a horrifying embodiment of rejects from the organ donor lab, sewn together with low concept: ain't the black folk cool? They can say the "n" word and win at "old school" dance contests. They are hulky sex-machines who consign white girls to wheel chairs. The white folks representin' are either dupes, cigar-smoking money launderers, X-crazed adolescents with a shine for bestiality or vapid "white chicks" with personalities more plastic than their Visa platinum cards—in all, a sexless, valueless, brainless, butt-less, useless class.
In short, White Chicks is not even ingenious in its racial profiling. Perhaps it's some kind of achievement to make lactose-intolerance gags seem comparatively tasteful. But in all, to compare this movie to any from which it has stolen is a bodily crime.
To writer/performer Kay Thompson's declaration, "the only 'ism' Hollywood practices is plagiarism," White Chicks submits a post script: racism and vulgarism.
FBI agents Shawn and Marlon Wayans (Scary Movie), on the skids from a bogus bust, are assigned to escort two white socialites to the weekend of all weekends in the Hamptons, because the melanin-challenged pair are the potential objects of a kidnapping scheme. En route, the sisters' dog flies out the window, and since the Wayans brother driving does not think to stop the car as it dangles by a leash, the car is sent tumbling from the road, injuring the socialites' faces. The blondes refuse to be seen in this manner, so the brothers decide to pose as white chicks in the Hamptons to uncover the kidnapping scheme themselves.
Marlon and Shawn Wayans are convincing as Aryan anorexics like two rhinos pass in a puppy mill. However, the audience is expected to believe that the mavens of fashion inhabiting this culture of Beluga and bulimia swallow the scheme whole—no laxatives required. Right.
The excuse for this gimmick, formerly known as plot, could not be made plausible by all of the prosthetics in Beverly Hills. It seems to have been pieced together from every crime-team flick ever made, with details as sparse as an incarnation of Mission Impossible, leaving the audience member relying on his knowledge of other movies to deduce what the shizzle is going on.
What plot there is is sublimated to the humor, which ranges from broad, racist and cliché to plumbing the depths of the potty. But to top it all off—as if this Frankenstein monster needed hair extensions—White Chicks tries to have a touching theme. You guessed it: the Wayans brothers love each other. Oh, and secondly: don't just be a "booty call"—think outside the botox.
The result is a horrifying embodiment of rejects from the organ donor lab, sewn together with low concept: ain't the black folk cool? They can say the "n" word and win at "old school" dance contests. They are hulky sex-machines who consign white girls to wheel chairs. The white folks representin' are either dupes, cigar-smoking money launderers, X-crazed adolescents with a shine for bestiality or vapid "white chicks" with personalities more plastic than their Visa platinum cards—in all, a sexless, valueless, brainless, butt-less, useless class.
In short, White Chicks is not even ingenious in its racial profiling. Perhaps it's some kind of achievement to make lactose-intolerance gags seem comparatively tasteful. But in all, to compare this movie to any from which it has stolen is a bodily crime.
