CHARLIE’S ANGELS

Directed by Mac G (?!?) and starring Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore, Lucy Liu

Phwoaarrr! Cor! Cop a load of the melons on that! This, at any rate, would seem to be the reaction Charlie’s Angels is intended to provoke among its target audience, testosterone-crazed teenage boys being a reliable niche market for jacuzzis full of hot girl-on-girl action.

Big, dumb and fiercely proud of it, this filmic resurrection of the kitsch seventies TV show is essentially one relentless wet T-shirt parade, and despite the awfulness of its script, one imagines most of said teenage boys won’t find any reason to complain. (I have never seen so many burdened-looking males mysteriously disappearing to the bathroom midway through a press screening.)

Charlie’s Angels is extremely small on detail, big on special-effects and BIG on mazoomas. Up to a point, it’s everything that a brain-dead blockbuster should be – a tumultuous Jerry Bruckheimer-style rush of set-pieces, interspersed with the more-than-occasional tit shot. The complete absence of narrative drive, plausible characterisation and intelligent dialogue becomes very wearying after ten minutes, but....phwoarrr, that Lucy Liu!

The ‘plot’ runs thus: Natalie (Diaz), Dylan (Barrymore) and Alex (Liu) get together on some half-explained assignment to rescue a kidnapped computer tycoon, and then...cor, would you look at the jugs on that Cameron Diaz!

The special effects themselves are entirely adequate, but the dialogue is truly painful, an unceasing avalanche of sub-Viz double-entendres that wouldn’t be out of place in a latter-day James Bond flick. (“Oh, you can throw your thing into my slot anytime” and “Don’t worry, I’m not going to put my hands anywhere near your staff” being prime examples). In fact, if the great Benny Hill hadn’t popped his clogs a few years ago, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see his name flash up on the credits.

What genuine comic value the film possesses is entirely thanks to Diaz and Bill Murray, both of whom work small wonders with the material on offer. Diaz, owner of easily the most winning toothy smile since Bugs Bunny, never lets her comic timing falter for a minute, while the perenially under-rated Murray displays a fine line in self-deprecation. Not that this is even nearly enough to lift Angels out of the sub-ordinary: Barrymore, true to recent form, simply goes through the motions, and Liu is many miles out of her depth.

In terms of sexual politics, the trio’s cheerful cleavage-baring makes Farrah Fawcett look like a hardcore, bra-burning, Dworkin-spouting feminazi. The only genuinely enjoyable aspect of the flick is the way they all flash gloriously fake smiles at one another throughout, given that the shoot was (allegedly) one gigantic cat-fight (Liu is reported to have kicked Bill Murray for daring to offer her advice). In box-office terms, however, the film is undoubtedly onto a winner.

Did I mention that there were tit shots?

2/5 (cor, nice pair)