There seems to be a lot of talk about Dreamgirls latelyâtalk of the Oscar variety (bzzzzzzzzt!), talk of the âthis is a good movieâ variety (psssssssh), talk of the âeeeeeeee!â variety (uuuuuugh). Now, I realize that Oprah reached down from her golden throne and touched you in your special area while whispering sweet nothings about Dreamgirls. I realize that BeyoncĂ©âs fake hair is really, really pretty. I realize that Jennifer Hudson is kind of a superchunk, but you kind of donât mind looking at her, and that kind of makes you feel good about yourself. But itâs time for YOU to realize that this movie is not good. This movie is nothing but problems. And fat people donât need your pity.
Adapted from the popular 1981 stage musical, Dreamgirls follows a 1960s girl group, the Dreamettes (pointedly based on the Supremes), on their three-decade rise to the top. Effie White (Jennifer Hudson) is the groupâs leader, ruling the crowd with fierce wails and shimmies, with Deena Jones (BeyoncĂ©, robotic as usual) and Lorrell Robinson (Anika Noni Rose, cute as a button and criminally underused) bringing up the rear. They take up with an oily wannabe producer, Curtis Taylor Jr. (Jamie Foxx), and hit the road, singing backup for Jimmy Early (Eddie Murphy, surprisingly aaaaawesome!), a James Brown-ish, Marvin Gaye-ish, hilarious bundle of cocaine and charm.
Effie is a âfull-figuredâ gal, variously referred to as ârealâ and a âreal woman,â which are annoying ways of tiptoeing around âfatso.â Sheâs also a powerful, incredible, supernaturally charismatic vocalist (seconded, strangely enough, by MurphyââWhatzupwitu,â anyone?), and the only one in the cast with a shred of soul. (Sheâs also not that fat.) She hooks up with Taylor (his sisters were âreal,â he explains creepily), whoâas the â70s roll in and his moustache thickensâpromptly dumps her for Deena and kicks her out of the group. How empowering.
History passes cursorilyâsome MLK footage here, a mention of the Detroit riots there, the poetic line, âMy brotherâs over in Vietnam fighting in a pointless war and Iâm angry about it!ââwith no effect on the plot. Its musical history is suspect as well. Dreamgirls would have you believe that Berry Gordy Jr. (AKA Curtis Taylor, Jr.) was single-handedly responsible for every major musical development since 1960 (every half hour or so, he shouts, âwe need a new sound!â and dreams up R&B, then pop, then disco). Dreamgirls would have you believe that Florence Ballard (AKA Effie White), the lost Supreme, eventually returned to a happy, successful solo career (in real life, she died at 32 in alcoholic poverty). Dreamgirls would have you believe that Diana Ross was a bona-fide âqueen of discoâ (sorry, but âUpside Downâ sucks), and that James Brown dropped his pants and invented rap in front of a live audience (okay, that part might be true), and then was forced into obscurity (though âWho was the first person to wear shiny clothes? That was ME!â might be one of my favorite lines in a movie ever).
As a star vehicle for BeyoncĂ©âs dressmaker, Dreamgirls is awesomeâeach outfit more spangly and Cher-worthy than the last. But as an actual movie, it suffers from a complete lack of a pointâone potential conflict after another meekly retreating under the onslaught of BeyoncĂ©âs wardrobe. At first, you think itâs going to be about racism: The Dreamettes get classified as ârace music,â theyâre kept off the mainstream charts and out of the classy clubs, corny white groups co-opt their songs (that partâs actually pretty funny), but then the whole race thing just kind of disappears (because, as we all know, racism was fixed by the mid-â70s). Or maybe itâs about fat acceptance, or payola, or deadbeat dads, orâOMG, are those feathers? And sequins? On her head? Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Dreamgirls feels, in the watching, a lot like one of VH1âs Movies That Rock: like The Jacksons: An American Dream, or Too Legit: The MC Hammer Story. If I were to come across Dreamgirls on TV at 11:00 a.m. on a hung-over Tuesday, Iâd be all about it (catch Too Legit Friday, December 29 at 8:00 a.m. and watch Hammerâs diamond palace crumble!), but to pay cashmoneydollars in an actual theater? Itâs like ordering some fancy fish at Ponti Seafood Grill and having Pat Cashman show up with a Taco Time burrito. Itâs like replacing my real movie with a glossy, two-dimensional, really, really big BeyoncĂ© paper doll. Man, fuck Oprah.