On Tuesday Sam and I followed Metacritic’s high score of 73 (out of 100) to the theater to see Magic Mike. Bow chicky bow bow. It’s the story of Channing Tatum’s, I mean Magic Mike’s stripper career into folly and redemption and blah-blah-blah etcetera etcetera. And yeah, take it off baby!
Perhaps I missed something. Perhaps the plot line wasn’t really as predictable and rehashed as I thought it was. Because a 73 rating? Maybe the critics need to hit a bachelorette party in Vegas. Dudes dancing about and ripping off velcro pants is not worth a 73. More like $20 and a feather boa.
The acting is mediocre at best though Mathew McConaughey seems as if he found his calling. Perhaps Tatum isn’t the only one with a pierced and shaved skeleton in his closet. Poor Matt Bomer (White Collar) had about 3 lines and Alex Pettyfer? Well that guy should stick to playing werewolves that don’t speak. Awkward.
I don’t know. It’s a fun movie that’s about on par with catching a male revue without having sweaty beefcake literally in your face. So either see Magic Mike and forgo having to cough up your ones or see the real thing and take a shower afterward.
Although I do have to say, that Channing Tatum can dance.