Dance Flick is the latest offering from the Wayans brothers’
lowbrow comedy grindhouse. Aping the story of Save the Last
Dance and filling out the middle with about-to-be-dated spoofs of
Little Miss Sunshine, Twilight, Hairspray and
High School Musical, the movie is all business in its execution:
fill a loose, 90-minute story with lewd jokes, keep up the pace and
what bits don’t work will be as frequent as those that do.
Despite Museum‘s supposed family-friendliness, Dance
Flick is more audience-oriented and engaging. Dance Flick‘s
direction, by Damien Wayans (Damon’s nephew), keeps the performances
and gags strictly on script, which propels the audience quickly towards
the inevitable conclusion. Museum, on the other hand, frequently
allows its actors to goof and riff as far as they can under the G-rated
circumstances. The wait for the end is excruciating.
Further, Dance Flick‘s performances are more risky and
audacious than Museum. Despite the fact that Museum is
chock-full of comedians, the performers don’t give anything beyond
their motor-mouths for a laugh. It makes them look like real
chicken-shits next to Wayans’ players, who don camel-toe pants,
blackface, fat suits and fake, dangly tits (not all at the same time)
and includes comics famous for their disregard of personal dignity,
like Amy Sedaris, David Allan Grier, Chris Elliot and the Wayans
clan.
Next to Night at the Museum‘s torturous pace and maddening indulgence,
Dance Flick has to be admired as more successful in its aims.
The movie is occasionally funny and works harder for laughs than
Museum, which seems to think that Sacajawea’s unpronounceable
name is the height of wit. Both films serve as polar-opposite examples
of a similar type of movie, with Dance Flick making no attempt
to hide its factory-like construction and, under the circumstances, is
more worthwhile for it.
This article appears in May 28 – Jun 3, 2009.