Posted: 06/27/2004

White Chicks

(2004)

by Clint Fletcher

Amusing concept goes nowhere fast.

Over the course of the past few months, I was really beginning to put my faith back into the Hollywood system. After thoroughly entertaining films such as The Chronicles of Riddick, The Terminal and Dodgeball, I started drifting away into that Summer feeling I used to get when I was younger—that feeling that leads you to believe that almost all the movies being released in the Summer are sure to be Blockbuster hits.

White Chicks brought me back to reality.

Now this is the paragraph where I usually explain the plot, but since I didn’t pay attention to what was going on (in and out of consciousness), I think I’m going to take an extra paragraph to bitch about how atrocious the premise is. First off, I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of scenario you come up with, but pitting two black guys in a situation where they have to dress up as white girls is fucking ridiculous. Why is this fucking ridiculous? Because there is no possible way to make two black guys look like two white girls, many hours of plastic surgery excluded. As all of us know through the endless bill-boards and previews, these two guys don’t look like white chicks at all: they look like two black dudes dressed up as white chicks. And could someone explain to me how their facial hair magically disappears when they’re in disguise? But fine, maybe I could live with that. This is just like how we all had to suck it up when Lois Lane and the rest of the dumb-ass co-workers of Clark Kent could never figure out that he was Superman, even though the only disguise that separated the two identities was his eye-glasses. But secondly, even if we were willing to look past the fact that everyone in this film actually accepts these two dudes as the girls they are impersonating, you still can’t look past the fact that the movie sucks ass.

Is the script funny? Nope. Is the plot interesting? Nope. Is the acting good? Three strikes. The acting wasn’t necessarily bad as it was annoying. Special kudos of annoyance go out to Terry Crews (Friday After Next) who just couldn’t seem to grab a-hold of his character’s reigns. And the script? Six writers? I could write something better while on the toilet (which is the proper home for White Chicks). Perhaps the biggest mistake with this film (besides the idea in the first place) is its decision to reach a wider audience with a PG-13 rating. One of the reasons why I signed on months ago to review this film was that I had a small glimmer of hope that the Wayans Brothers would be back in true form, with quite possibly the raunchiest movie we’ve seen since Scary Movie. I thought this because, to be honest, I like the Wayans brothers, and they’ve had more hits than misses with their career (at least when they all team up behind the camera). And as you can imagine, the film pretty much spends an hour-and-a- half trifling through recycled material that has been around for decades, let alone the past two years (the equally atrocious Sorority Boys, anyone?). I swear to God, if I see one more movie where a man, dressed as a woman gets mugged and he chases after him with all his manly-ness, I’m going to quit filmmaking for good. Mark my words.

My apologies for those of you that read this review and wanted a plot summary, because I wasn’t lying about not paying attention. Because honestly, its medically impossible to comprehend normal thoughts when you’re in shock. I not only was in shock because of what I was watching, but also because I was sitting in a sold-out theater with people laughing hysterically all around me through almost the entire running time. What has the world come to?! Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was the only white person in the entire audience (literally). Maybe this film wasn’t made for me, I don’t know. But whoever this film was intended for, I’m not buying it, and I find it sad that others are buying into it so easily.

In closing, White Chicks is like one big, long migraine. Everything about it bothers you, especially loud talking. A couple weeks ago I ran into an old college professor of mine who is a film critic in Nashville. He had just gotten out of White Chicks and when I asked him about it, he told me something that I now completely agree with, and since he didn’t use this in his review I feel obligated to use it in mine. “I would rather walk over to a door frame, spread my legs and let everyone in the room kick me square in the nuts as hard as they possibly can, than to spend another minute of watching White Chicks.” Right on, brother.

Clint Fletcher is a writer and filmmaker in Chicago. Well… he was before seeing this film.

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