Yes, I saw it and can say that it is a well-acted, fast-paced entertainment, marked by some quite wonderful and handsome limited-palette cinematography of Tampa, FL.
Yeah, yeah, like any of you cared about that stuff!
So I will file this SCR (Salacious Consumer Report) and tell y’all that there are male booties aplenty on display, particularly by Channing Tatum, Alex Pettyfer and a very over-the-top, beyond-camp Matthew McConaughey (who might consider a swift retirement after this one). And steel yourselves people, in Tatum’s very first scene he shows the swiftest blink of junk on his jaybird way to the john (soft R-rated homage to Michael Fassbender in SHAME?). There is also a probably bogus closeup of a peter pump in action, as well as one quite shockingly flabby posterior that wouldn’t get its owner-who-shall-be-nameless hired in a strip club anywhere outside of a gay retirement complex in 1978. Blame it on heterosexual director Steven Soderbergh who has managed to make a quite unsexy movie about sex. If any epic needed the lovingly knowing gay hand (not to mention male pulchritude-appreciative eye) of a Vincente Minnelli or George Cukor, this was it.
One character’s name is “Big Dick Richie,” but such is the pallid nature of things here that we must accept the accuracy of that apellation on sheer faith. Paging Judd Apatow, for fuck’s sake!
What cannot be denied, however, are the F-I-E-R-C-E dancing chops of Tatum, which are the highlight of this thinly conceived disappointment. Smooth as a snake and ten times as sexy, he uncannily possesses more funky soul than any white boy in film history, and that includes Elvis, Travolta, Gene Kelly, James Cagney and Al Jolson.
Although I am sorely tempted to tell you to just wait for it on Netflix and throw a viewing party, I know not one of you out there will listen to me, somehow.