“We got a tsunami of dollars bills to get to, daddy.”
Beneath its hypersexualized surface, Steven Soderbergh’s Magic Mike was an unexpectedly thoughtful character study about a young man trying to square his lofty ambitions with the reality of his economic situation. But it made loads of money on the merit of its stars’ bare skin and bulging muscles and provocative dance moves, not on its characterizations or thematic undercurrents. And so the obligatory sequel, Magic Mike XXL—helmed by frequent Soderbergh collaborator Gregory Jacobs, with Soderbergh handling cinematography and editing—foregoes drama in favor of humor, charisma, and bonhomie. And stripping. We can’t forget about the stripping. It also made loads of money.
Following a road movie formula, the picaresque film chronicles the journey of the remaining Kings of Tampa—sadly, Matthew McConaughey and Alex Pettyfer do not reprise their roles; neither does Cody Horn—and their DJ (Gabriel Iglesias) as they travel in a froyo van to a stripping convention in Myrtle Beach for what amounts to a farewell show. The beefcakes who reprise their roles alongside Tatum (Joe Manganiello, Matt Bomer, Kevin Nash, Adam Rodriguez) have a blast chewing scenery, cracking jokes, discussing their impending career changes and the artistic value of their profession, and taking their clothes off for money (or sometimes just to make an overworked gas station attendant smile). Along the way they attend drag shows and beach parties. They make new friends (Amber Heard, Donald Glover) and catch up with old ones (Jada Pinkett Smith, Elizabeth Banks). They even help alleviate the sexual frustrations of a gaggle of middle-aged housewives hosted by Andie MacDowell (star of Soderbergh’s Sex, Lies, and Videotape).
It’s low stakes all around, a totally superfluous film that seems to be more fun for the cast and crew than the audience. Kind of like Oceans Twelve. But in its celebration of music, movement, and physically demanding performance, it offers mild entertainment value.