White Chicks (review)
God help us if the “best” the FBI has to offer cannot distinguish between overprivileged, anorexic, skanky white society brats and their own strapping moronic black male colleagues in terrifying whiteface drag. Even worse: The close friends of the society brats fail to notice that they’ve been replaced by strapping moronic black FBI agents in terrifying whiteface drag. Further imbecility: The film doesn’t even attempt to mine this bizarre cognitive dissonance for humor, instead relying on the old standbys of explosive diarrhea and gay bashing. Substituting for plot is an array of abuse so wide-ranging that it can hardly be called sexist or racist or classist — not that director Keenen Ivory Wayans doesn’t seem to be aiming to set new lows on all three fronts — managing to insult such seemingly uninsultable subspecies of humanity as “guys who need to drug their dates to get laid” to “reporters who think that tracking down J.Lo and Ben’s love nest is ‘investigative journalism.'” The best that can be said about this repellent exercise in crassness? It demonstrates that no matter how bad you think the movies can get, you’re just not trying hard enough.