James Bond, feminine gender, in triplicate: such is Charlie's Angels. Three contour-figured airheads in the service of their country and one man, doing dauntless deeds on land, sea and in the air.
Such was the TV series; such, at greater length, but no more depth, is the new feature film.
The latexwear hugs the special agents more tightly than Farrah Fawcett's wardrobe; and the girls have more to toss around above and below waist level. Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore and Lucy Liu are today's energy-packed babes. As ever, the format is ambiguous. A pimp and his hookers is the only pattern-plate that fits the idea of women being totally subservient to a single man's diktats as John Forsythe (voice only as Charlie) dispatches his gals to crack a kidnapping case using their gravity-defying martial-arts skills like an aerobics class on something high. Female empowerment is the politically correct message; yet enslavement to a male-order hierarchy seems part of the deal, too: confusing at times.
Lots of high-tech gizmos, high-octane chases, 39 pop tunes (or bits thereof), and a plethora of semi-smutty winks over phrases like "a full-service job", "deliver it through my slit" and "you're a pro - executive, I mean". The men are simply there to have it socked to them: Tim Curry, a hammy villain; Bill Murray, the girls' frazzled controller; Crispin Glover, a guy as thin as a stick insect and good at vanishing through cracks in the plot. A first-time director called simply "McG" for brevity's sake (or self-protection) sets a hectic pace; not so fast, though, that you don't find time to think, "Why are these girls unable to find men for themselves? Why are they working for a man they've never met? Why..." But, oh, forgeddit... Pinhead entertainment: yes. But the Angels do dance nicely to it.
Charlie's Angels
Cert: cert15
