It’s nearly showtime and a single voice can be heard above the chorus of nervous giggles. She’s peaked in her excitement and can hold it in no longer...
‘Channing, get yer wang out!’
Not every film starts with such a bold heckle, but apparently the anticipation shared by a predominantly female audience about to clock eyes on the long awaited Magic Mike is all too much.
But it’s at least ten minutes before director Steven Soderbergh even lets us catch a glimpse of an oiled-up pec or a thrusting crotch. The hen-night-brigade, in all its spangly regalia, feels cheated.
And that’s because they don’t want a story, or even a light-hearted romance. They just want a sniff of the main man’s muscles, a shot at getting dry-humped by the most ridiculous name in Hollywood.
Channing Tatum, we all know, used to be a stripper. ‘Channing Tatum stripper’ - it’s hardly buried way down in the depths of the Google search bar. Obviously we’re all curious to see a film based on his younger, thong-donning years, but the money shots are hardly worth the lukewarm story that comes with it.
Magic Mike is a poor man’s Boogie Nights; a hot piece with raw talent gets drawn into a lucrative world of sex and drugs, and it all gets a bit dramatic. It’s already been done bigger and better (and less censored). Tatum’s autobiography obsessed ego is even larger than Dirk Diggler’s prosthetic, but it’s far less interesting.
Nevertheless, he’ll stop at nothing to remind womankind that he’s just, like, so super hot. He’s hinted at a Magic Mike sequel and has shown interest in playing the leading male role in the inevitable 50 Shades film adaptation.
So it may reassure the more bawdy women among you that Channing is planning on keeping his ‘wang’ out for quite some time.
