Josie and the Pussycats (the movie)

What can I tell you other than, “Wow?” Suddenly, Martin Lawrence is a comic mastermind and Big Momma’s House is pure comedic gold. Gold I tell you! Gold I say!!!

Yes, such is the state of this pathetic atrocity thrust upon the film viewing public. Inserted somewhere in the midst of mindless banter, cheesy pep talks, and severely mutilated things they would like to call ‘jokes’, exists a plot.

Josie and the Pussy Cats‘ plot line revolves around the concept of subliminal messaging in popular music, being implemented by record labels and backed by the government for the sake of driving the economy. That’s right, the mindless drones of the teeny-bopper movement are being told things such as “orange is the new pink,” for the sake of forcing them to shill out $60 on an ugly pair of orange heels so the economy doesn’t tank. All right, that’s plausible enough. Problem is, it seems the boss lady of this particular label is a neurotic lisping nerd girl who wants to be popular and plans on using the Josie crew upstarts as a means of conquering the world. Right…

A midst all of this is the heart warming, or more accurately, the brain-lesioning story of the friendship bonds between Josie her friends… um… the other ones, is the story of the softer side of the neurotic nerd bitch and her henchman; who oddly enough was a lisping nerd himself and how the ‘find’ each other at the end of the movie. In other words, Saddam was only half right: the eyes of Americans will squirt blood, but not because of his inept fighters, rather because of our own inept writers, directors, actors, etc. Surprisingly, there are actually a whole two or three “original” songs attributed to the alley cat band. Of course, I wouldn’t particularly call it music; I’d call it the cause of a mixture of brain fluid and blood streaming out of ears a good five feet in each direction. No friends, I didn’t see this in movie theaters, nor did I rent the blasted thing. This was on cable and I figured, hey how bad could it really be? Like I said before, wow.

On the whole, I’m not even going to defame the NWOt’s rating scale with this floater in the septic tank of Hollywood failures. The facts are, I don’t think I could give it a low enough score to adequately represent to you the truly horrendousness of this waste of perfectly good film. Also in retrospect, I think I was way, way, to hard on Martin Lawrence in the last badness report. <i>Big Momma’s House</i> is light years, no tens of billions of light years ahead of this Neanderthal cave painting.

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Written by

Ray Macula

Ray Macula