Magic Mike XXL has man-candy but no mojo

By Katherine Monk

The magic is gone, leaving nothing but Mike and some extra-large disappointment packaged in gold lamé underwear.

It’s hardly a surprise: Steven Soderbergh’s 2012 original was an unlikely success story that thrust Channing Tatum onto the A-list after racking up over $100 million in summer receipts.

A return trip to the land of ripped abs and bronzed biceps was inevitable, but like any one-nighter, it wasn’t meant to last.

The first film fried female eye sockets with sizzling beef served up in distressed Levis and oily Stetsons. A half-open fly, a flapping belt buckle and a hint of baguette in the bread basket was enough of a novelty to lure viewers to testicle row because we’d never seen male bimbos before.

More importantly, Soderbergh didn’t glamourize a peeler’s life. His steroid stallions were insecure, petty and prone to ego-based squabbles, which essentially flipped the tables on gender archetype, with none other than Matthew McConaughey playing the aging beauty struggling with his manly identity.

The film understood it was a subtle and subversive statement on how society assigned value to human beings, with looks and sexual appeal accounting for the vast majority of net worth.

Magic Mike (Channing Tatum) was the character who had to ask himself penetrating questions about personal meaning: Would he be a boy-man who left a slime trail of one-nighters in his wake, or would he man-up and take responsibility for his place in the world by becoming a custom furniture guy?

Soderbergh made the silences important moments of personal reflection, but in Gregory Jacobs’ painfully executed sequel, the idle scenes are just plain dull – much like the movie itself.

Erasing all the masculine evolution that took place in the first movie, Jacobs kicks off by re-introducing Mike. Three years later, he’s working his tail off as a cabinet-maker, but it’s a hand-to-mouth existence. He can’t get ahead and he can’t even afford medical insurance for his one employee.

Enter Big Dick Richie (Joe Manganiello), de facto leader of the man band now that Dallas (McConaughey) is out of the picture. Big Dick tells Mike about a last hurrah in Myrtle Beach, where he and the remaining crew can pump, bump and grind into the black velvet sunset. Mike says no, because he’s a man like that. Then he says yes, because if he doesn’t, we don’t have a movie.

Though his decision to get on the bus – a frozen yogurt wagon, to be precise – makes no sense and betrays the character we embraced in the original, we climb aboard for the road trip with this throng of thong-rockers.

The small talk, which seems unscripted because it’s so random and pointless, is the film’s biggest liability: It saps any empathy we have for the characters because they sound self-absorbed and stupid.

Manganiello and Tatum find a hint of comic chemistry because they have acting chops. Matt Bomer, who returns as straight-laced Ken, feels like a psycho killer for the duration and former WWE attraction Kevin Nash plays Tarzan, a Dog the Bounty Hunter lookalike who conjures stray thoughts of truck stop trysts.

It’s not wine and roses material by any stretch, and things only get worse when we get the big production number at a Savannah roadhouse, where Jada Pinkett-Smith plays a cabaret-styled emcee who works the ladies into a lather before setting the boys loose.

These scenes were supposed to be the priapic centerpiece, a brief moment where we could all share in the climax, but they’re a total turn off because what woman wants to be held upside down like a sack of groceries in a skirt, or thrown into a swing harness with her legs spread while the room watches the man peacock around her? It has all the romantic appeal of a man throwing pizza dough and spreading pepperoni.

These scenes were supposed to be the priapic centerpiece, a brief moment where we could all share in the climax, but they’re a total turn off because what woman wants to be held upside down like a sack of groceries in a skirt, or thrown into a swing harness with her legs spread while the room watches the man peacock around her? It has all the romantic appeal of a man throwing pizza dough and spreading pepperoni.

Director Jacobs tries to make it tasty with some boy band style sweet talk, but it’s so condescending and patronizing, you wonder what old copy of Cosmo inspired the cringe-inducing ickiness.

The one scene that had true potential featured Andie MacDowell as a southern matron hosting a wine party with her cougar friends. When the boys show up by surprise, the ladies get all lecherous. The only problem here was the lack of any decent dialogue.

If Magic Mike XXL had any potential, Jacobs flattened it in the first act when he turned Mike into an empty vessel and filled the glass case with man candy. It looks fine, but you know it all ends with smeared mascara, a banging hangover and a bleary-eyed walk of shame.

@katherinemonk

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