Blissfully unrelated to numbers

Even though I spent the past 4 years working in documentary film, and even though Katsumi would peg me as the worst kind of cinema snob (Netflix conundrum: Ballets Russes or the latest Almodovar?), I do have my guilty pleasures. On a hungover Sunday, does one really want to be watching the tortured life of a pre-op transvestite? Does one really want to confront the hidden dark center of humanity as represented by the migratory pattern of North American warblers? HELL NO!!

When you feel down, alone, at odds with the world, sometimes the only thing that can help is a good, old-fashioned, cotton candy fluff movie. I’m talking one level down from Mean Girls, here, people, deeper into the occult shame of ‘tween mastubatory revelry, down to that place you wouldn’t admit to your sister, never mind the entire internet reading audience. I’m talking, of course, about the B-movie dance flick. Or, more specifically, Bring it On Again.

Who could forget the original, where Kirsten Dunst pom-pommed her way into our hearts and our wet dreams? Well the second, while unarguably more ridiculous and with a not-quite-so-slamming main character, runs like the most fantastic senior thesis spoof film ever made. Think Cheerleader Ninjas, but not quite so out there. There’s a lot of weird things about BIOA, like how everybody in the movie looks like a knockoff of some other celebrity:

mini Reese Witherspoon

dime-store Skeet Ulrich, who is himself a cheaper version of Ethan Hawke circa 1994

striking resemblance to Stacey Dash, of Clueless fame

But you know what, IT DOESN’T MATTER. The B-list, straight-to-DVD dance movie is not about good talent or unique players, it’s about the joy of mindless distraction. Granted, the plot has major holes, the story relies on unrealistic archetypes, and the whole thing ends abruptly with a whap bang boom gag-reel montage, but there are so many gratuitous panty shots that one can overlook the movie’s smaller flaws and focus on what’s important: getting really drunk while watching. No, seriously, you can’t appreciate the brilliance with any less than five glasses of wine. Trust me.

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