Writing about art is a quest to objectify the subjective.
There are as many versions of a movie as there are eyeballs that watch it, and a critique’s job is to translate our own subjective version into objective words for others to see and understand.
But how much of quality boils down to: you know it when you see it.
Well, that adage doesn’t fly in this occupation, which is why slippery concepts like chemistry can be so tricky to nail down.
How often do you bemoan the lack of chemistry between two actors, while someone else claims they sizzled? It’s tough to adjudicate, because chemistry comes in so many different forms, one movie can’t be really compared to the next.
Well, Magic Mike’s Last Dance attempts to lay (heyo) this discrepancy bare (heyo).
Midway through the picture, the most magical of Mikes teaches his grasshoppers how to lap dance. One of his students steps up to give it a try, and even though he’s technically impressive, there’s still a certain oomph missing.
Well, Mikey notices this lack, and he gets on that stage to show us how it’s done.
And the difference is fucking tangible. It’s like a “before vs. after” of filmmaking and performance, with one crucial alteration: alchemic chemistry.
How to perceptively objectify the thorny subjective — film is a subjective object of objectified subjectivity; bong rip — is kind of the modus operandi for the entire trilogy, and perhaps Steven Soderbergh’s whole oeuvre.
A new Write All Nite tradition, to support the endangered theatrical cause: I shall now note where I see all of these movies, because the specifics of the individual theaters definitely inform how I respond!
I ground to Magic Mike’s Last Dance at AMC Lincoln Square, Auditorium 4. I got nothing but love for Lincoln Square — especially the upstairs auditoriums, especially auditoriums 2-5 — but is anyone else bothered by the yellowish tint of the new laser projectors?