Yesterday, I gave some of my actual human money yesterday to see Magic Mike XXL because I am a human woman and I enjoy fun. It is somehow like male stripper mumble core with not much story, weirdly improvised scenes and wonderfully strange and earnest cameos by Donald Glover and Michael from Kelly and Michael and lots of women getting ground upon (namely, large women, as if to shout at the audience: HEY! FATTIE BEHIND THE EXTRA LARGE POPCORN! THIS IS FOR YOU!). In summation, Channing Tatum is kind of wonderful, and the whole thing is a STRANGE AND SHAMELESS DELIGHT, best watched while shouting things at the screen like WHAT?! REALLY?! and NO. THAT DOES NOT OCCUR.
Most unreal moment: when the movie’s hot girl, Zoe, the photographer, Zoe who smokes cigarettes and can’t seem to get her hair to stay in her bun, Zoe who is as thin as a child soccer player, has a scene in which she is bummed, and Magic Mike finds her in the kitchen, eating an entire red velvet cake. And this is officially where the movie lost me. There are surely stripper conventions and magical strippers and mystical southern mansions containing Andy Macdowell and a whole lot of very old expensive wine, all that can be realistically happened upon, in the real world. But no way in hell does Zoe ever sit on a counter and sadly eat a whole cake. MAGIC MIKE, YOU LOST ME.