The overhaul of the late-Seventies TV series is, in essence, M:I-2 plus T&A. The Mission: Impossible element comes clear in the opening sequence when, by and by, the Steadicam gives up roving the aisles of an airborne jetliner and settles down in front of an African-garbed LL Cool J, who, after a self-referential grumble about the in-flight entertainment (T.J. Hooker, the Movie: "Another one from an old TV show -- I hate that!"), peels off a computer-generated mask to expose himself underneath as -- ta-da! -- Drew Barrymore! You know right then and there: it's going to be that kind of movie. To give it its due, it accomplishes pretty much everything it set out to accomplish. The chicks kick butt, dodge bullets (running up the walls in Matrix fashion to do so), dish out double-entendres (to the mailman: "You can just stick things in my slot"), reveal cleavage, speak in subtitles when they desire privacy, never break a sweat. And their collective tongue, not content to remain in cheek, is openly and fully stuck out. Any reheated debate -- from the glory days of Jiggle TV, Farrah Hair, and all that -- over whether the thing is anti-feminist, quasi-feminist, crypto-feminist, post-feminist, neo-feminist, or what-you-will, would make more sense if our trinity of "Angels" bore any resemblance to human beings. Nonhuman equates to nonfeminist, a nonissue. On the plus side, Cameron Diaz does a couple of high-spirited and low-inhibitioned dances. That's the extent of the plusses. Lucy Liu, Bill Murray, Sam Rockwell, Kelly Lynch; directed by McG (no first name, only that fragment of a last name). (2000) — Duncan Shepherd
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