Producers: Rick Alvarez, Lee R. Mayes, Marlon
Wayans, Shawn Wayans, Keenen Ivory Wayans
Written by: Keenen Ivory Wayans, Shawn Wayans,
Marlon Wayans, Andrew McElfresh, Michael Anthony Snowden, Xavier
Cast: Shawn Wayans, Marlon Wayans, Frankie Faison,
John Heard, Anne Dudek, Maitland Ward, Jaime King
This is typically the portion of the review in which I pull my hair
out and my ulcers develop ulcers in an attempt to conceive some sort
of clever introductory hook to insert some originality into a stolid
format. It’s a difficult and time-consuming process, I assure
you, and the rewards are not apparent (Is anyone even out there, reading
these reviews?). Sometimes, however, brevity is best. This is one of
those times. White Chicks is so utterly devoid of value that
I cannot muster the strength required to be cute or clever. Call me
lazy, whisper that I’m flaccid and uninspired, do what you must.
I understand that the reader has certain lofty expectations that an
author of any sort must meet. Keep in mind, though, that I am here for
your protection. I saw White Chicks. Now you don’t have
The Copeland brothers, Marcus and Kevin (Marlon and
Shawn Wayans, respectively), are two FBI agents (the
FBI must have recently lowered their entrance criteria) who never seem
to get things right. After an opening shootout sequence that is neither
funny nor action-packed, the Chief (Faison) reprimands
the brothers for allowing the criminals to escape, and things look grim
for our disinteresting protagonists; the Chief grows tired of their
“escapades”—one more screw-up and their jobs are forfeit.
In an attempt to placate the Chief, the two take on an assignment that
no other FBI agents will touch, the protection of the Wilson sisters,
a duo of Hilton-like, space cadet skank elementals,
who are under threat of kidnapping. Did I mention that the chicks are
white? Because that bit of information is going to come into play later.
Hilariously, the sisters incur dual facial injuries in a minor car accident
while Marcus poses as their chauffeur, and they refuse to attend the
parties in the Hamptons because of their insubstantial disfigurations.
Exasperated, Marcus and Kevin do the only logical thing: They call some
guy named “Josh,” who probably works for the FBI in some
department, I guess, and who provides the brothers with “convincing”
prosthetics and Caucasian-colored body-spray which “transforms”
the two agents into the Wilson sisters. The real rich-bitch siblings
recuperate in a hotel somewhere, while the “disguised” agents
enter the “comic goldmine” of life as white chicks. And
man, are white chicks stupid. And petty. And slutty. And boy oh boy,
do they get lampooned… *shudder*. Some of the mirthful situations
you’ll providentially dodge because you won’t see this movie
(right?) are the friendships which develop between the “incognito”
Marcus and Kevin and the Wilson sisters’ Hamptonian friends, involving
many jokes which you’ve seen at least 3,256 instances previous
about girls’ insecurities (girls are insecure, bwaaahahaha!);
the implausible romance founded on lie after lie which arises between
Kevin and a local investigative reporter; the pursuing of the “masqueraded”
Marcus by a muscle-bound, often well-oiled African American basketball
player with a fetish for, yeah, that’s right, white chicks; the
resolution of the film’s plotlines at climactic fashion show sequence
which, again, is neither action-packed nor funny, but does tie up the
inane kidnapping plot centerpiece about which no one gives even the
Although it contains no real strengths, White Chicks’
Achilles heel is the make-up around which the entire film is centered.
Marlon and Shawn Wayans, when “concealed,” more resemble
grotesque aberrations of God than they do white chicks, their masks
stiff, wrinkled, and unnaturally taut, like the flesh of burn victims.
They are hideous, looking more like Frank Langella’s
Skeletor from the 1980’s Masters Of The Universe picture
than human beings. Their revolting appearance irrevocably destroys any
and all attempts at comedy; their visages frighten and alarm instead.
And yet somehow the characters in the film are all hoodwinked by the
“veiled” agents, even the Copelands’ FBI peers. How
this is possible I cannot begin to speculate, as the film is not nearly
absurdist enough to make me believe that anyone might be fooled. The
film’s entire cast simply ends up looking like absolute idiots,
but not in an amusing way
White Chicks is low-brow, common-denominator drivel (see
also Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, or Breakin’
All The Rules for more recent examples of this sort of “humor”).
It is the rare film that fails on all levels. And it took a team of
six screenwriters. (To put things into perspective, Casablanca was
written by three people, Citizen Kane by two, and the modern
classic Boogie Nights by one.) “Where,” I ask as
I pray to Thomas A. Edison, progenitor of the motion
picture and, as far as I’m concerned, patron saint of the medium,
“are the modern-day Being Theres or Dr. Strangeloves
or Duck Soups or even Airplanes? Why has intelligent
humor forsaken us?” The only answers I receive are silence and
stigmata, neither very helpful.
White Chicks sucks. Send a message to the studios by not
seeing it. If you see it, I will find you and gouge out every eye you’ve
got. Consider yourself warned.
Take a pal and pay full price for both tickets.
Itís worth a full-price ticket.
Itís worth a matinee ticket.
Wait for video rental.
Check out the video from the library, if you must.
While we would never encourage anyone to destroy a video...