Movie Review: Burlesque
Do you really hate yourself enough to watch it?
Comparatively, Burlesque makes Glee seem as camp as Schindler’s List. The narrative smegma of Chicago appear to be one written and overseen by Werner Herzog. And Coyote Ugly to be one of the most highbrow movies ever conceived. It is, without question, the most stupid movie of the year, full of lines as bulbous as co-lead Cher’s new jaw, with no actor coming out of the movie with any credit to their chosen profession whatsoever, and with love scenes as sexy as a bin full of rotting broccoli.
There is a plot, but it’s so wafer thin its premise blew away upon typing the words on this page (farm girls, big voice, blah blah), yet I do recall that somewhere amidst Christina Aguilera bellowing like a monkey being taught the trumpet, there is a message told about following your dreams. In this case Christina’s dream is one of dancing in underwear before men. A dream, it should be noted, that ranks on the Womens Lib checklist somewhere between being Jeremy Clarkson’s footstool and a member of the Pussycat Dolls. But principally this is a film for people who just can’t get enough of Hen Nights.
Like King Canute attempting to hold back the tide, there will be those who will seek to defend Burlesque. These people will say things like “light entertainment”, “it’s just a bit of fun” and “my daddy used to lock me in the basement and I can’t look at myself without wanting to cry”. They might also cite the enduring entertainment provided by Showgirls, a film that’s so bad there is meagre perverse pleasure to be had in its viewing, much like the sort of stuff drunks watch on Youtube at 4am. Like the aforementioned Showgirls, I fear Steven Antin’s film will develop a cult following, consisting of idiots and masochists, with a smattering of contrary types who will later feel soiled by their participation.
It’s worth mentioning that anyone with a passing interest in cults will know that most people unfortunate to be involved in them come away with deep rooted and painful psychological scars. I’ll conclude by saying I can’t see that being any different for anyone who spends any time with Burlesque.