Magic Mike: Film Review

Remember that sweet little movie about boyhood in the 80s called Karate Kid? Remember the star-making turn John Travolta experienced in Saturday Night Fever? Remember essentially every movie about becoming self-actualized that you’ve ever seen?

Well, now imagine those movies stripped (literally) of their outer elements and set upon the sweaty, beefy male stripping stages of Southern Florida where the only thing more electric than the screams of titillated women are their regular estrogen deposits into the atmosphere. That, basically, is Magic Mike. And for no other reason than that it is directed Steven Soderbergh (yes, that Steven Soderbergh) can I say wholeheartedly that this is, in fact, a very good and very watchable movie. What other director with any other subject matter could make you not want to throw your jumbo soda at Matthew McConaughey? I ask you again: what director? It’s perfect casting!

The story is about a small town boy with big boy biceps (Alex Pettyfer) who falls under the wing of the “Magic” Mike Lane (Tatum) who soon introduces the wayward chap to the world of male stripping and adoring female fans. He also introduces him to Dallas (McConaughey) who owns the club and who is way, waaaay past his prime as a stripper but just can’t get away. But seriously, folks, the story doesn’t matter in this one.

The fun is that the movie has several outrageous dancing sequences that put Rock of Ages to shame, and the supporting cast of Matt Bomer and Adam Rodriguez know exactly what they’re doing. If you’re looking for a flesh flick that might upend your sensibilities about female sexual desire and how frankly dirty it can be, then look no further: this is the movie for you.