Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle doesn't have much of one, and we don't care. Despite its shameless pandering to adolescent fantasies, there's enough here to like.
By STEVE PERSALL
Published June 26, 2003
[Photo: Columbia Pictures]
The Angels, from left, Drew Barrymore, Cameron Diaz and Lucy Liu, confront former Angel Madison Lee, played by Demi Moore. Moore’s return to the screen is one of the film’s highlights.
Film critics aren't supposed to enjoy movies like Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. But if American cinema is degenerating into a mindless mosh pit of lowbrow, high-volume video games, let them all be as fearlessly stupid as this one.
Not a single moment in this movie begs to be taken seriously, but I heard the sighs of other critics at Monday's screening who insisted on doing just that. Party poopers.
Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle deserves credit for its shameless manner of disregarding all cinematic rules of plot progression and continuity for a waywardly noble purpose: pimping hot hunks and babes for the sheer hormonal rush of it. Not just parading them before the camera, but placing them in spontaneous episodes of X-games action and X-rated ideas to fully exploit the actors' bodies and everyone's libido. Pure junk, yet filmed with such recklessly stylish disregard that it's nearly irresistible.
Viewers will know what they're in for before the opening credits end. We're re-introduced to the private eye Angels of mysterious Charles Townsend (voice of John Forsythe) during a mission in Mongolia to rescue a captured government agent. Dylan Sanders (Drew Barrymore) is the rough-and-tumble Angel doing whiskey shots in the saloon with the hordes. Alex Munday (Lucy Liu) is the lithe Angel provocatively crammed into a crate to infiltrate the dungeon downstairs. Natalie Cook (Cameron Diaz) is always there for crowd distraction, this time riding a mechanical yak with sexy aplomb.
Their gleefully illogical escape is followed by a parody (by comparison) of the title sequence from the 1970s TV series, explaining the Angels' background that, by all evidence, primarily depends upon their backsides. These are some world-class booty shakers, completely at ease with using sex appeal to get what they want: truth and justice. The grrrl-power attitude Full Throttle thrives upon could be viewed as sexist, until you consider who's really in control.
This time, the Angels try to recover two stolen platinum rings that would reveal the names of every person in the world's witness protection program. Mobs from Brooklyn to Tokyo would pay big bucks to get revenge against snitches. It's obvious that the mastermind is a former Angel, Madison Lee (Demi Moore), now a gold pistol-packing mama lounging in a bikini and fur coat while she waits for the offers to pour in.
Moore makes an (ahem) impressive return to the screen, adding to the subversive winks at other films when she sheds a signature tear, completely out of Madison's ruthless character. Watch closely for gentle nudges at Spider-Man, Singin' in the Rain, even Frodo Baggins with two rings inspiring the quest. Most of the humor in Full Throttle is so dumb - spending a minute on a name like "Helen Zass," for example - that its occasional cleverness can sneak past viewers.
Like the Angels, whose familiarity with physics and forensics contrasts with their boop-boop-be-doo personalities, Full Throttle is smarter than it wants to look.
Director McG returns for part two, ramping up the stunts and sensual silliness to an even higher level than the original. The plot, such as it is, is merely an excuse to toss in such testosterone-soaked exercises as motocross racing, surfing, exotic dancers, monster trucks and pro wrestling, plus the Angels' inexhaustible, usually erotic wardrobe changes for each occasion. McG turns everything into fetishes, using slow motion camera speeds to accentuate a taut torso, speeding bullet or simply the opening of the way-cool wing door of a sports car.
Problems arise when an already slipshod plot careens into other directions simply for a celebrity cameo or another costume change. Carrie Fisher spends a couple unfunny screen moments as a nun, allowing the Angels to pose as nuns. Bruce Willis pops in as a U.S. security agent, and it's a hint of McG's subversion that Willis gets killed on the orders of Moore's character. Jaclyn Smith reprises her Kelly Garrett role from the TV series for baby boomers, and their kids will recognize pop star Pink.
Men mostly come up short in McG's lingerie party, with John Cleese tarnishing his legendary reputation by swapping shocked looks with Matt LeBlanc, in their roles as Alex's father and boyfriend. Luke Wilson continues his run as a handsome blank slate as Natalie's live-in lover. The exceptions are Bernie Mac taking over Bill Murray's role as Bosley, horning his way into a few laughs, and Justin Theroux (Mulholland Dr.) as a psycho straight out of Cape Fear, Ireland.
Full Throttle is everything critics are supposed to dislike, shamelessly pandering to adolescent fantasies, favoring innuendo over wit and simply too loud and hectic for eyes and ears attuned to classic filmmaking. It also has the guilty pleasures of Moore looking mighty fine, the funniest screen appearance ever by the Olsen twins, and a wet, passionate kiss for the creepiest guy in movies, Crispin Glover. Any movie that can do all those things can't be that bad.
Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle
Grade: B
Director: McG Cast: Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore, Lucy Liu, Bernie Mac, Demi Moore, Crispin Glover, Justin Theroux, Robert Patrick, John Cleese
Screenplay: John August, Cormac Wibberley, Marianne Wibberley
Rating: PG-13; action violence, sensuality, profanity, sexual humor
