Glitter

REVIEW
Trashy diva wannabe Carey (as in "can’t carry her own movie") humiliates herself completely in this clumsy, rote semiautobiographical romantic drama about a ghetto-fabulous singer’s meteoric rise to superstardom, thanks to a cute but prissy DJ (Beesley) who’s thunderstruck by her "angelic" voice and perpetually rosy cheeks. As Billie Frank, Mariah scores the impressive coup of remaining a non-presence in her own starring vehicle; whenever costar Beesley turns up in a "wife-beater" and lifts his arms, his furry pits totally blow her off the screen. Gratuitously flashy Scorsese-like time lapse transitions are sprinkled throughout for no other reason than to liven up the dullishness. More intriguing are the mysterious reflective Band-Aids that randomly pop up on our diva’s shoulder and clavicle. Such blatant distractions are likely a futile attempt to pry our focus away from just how bewilderingly non-expressive our rigid leading lady is. Stupefyingly embarrassing, mercilessly hokey, desperately humorless, Glitter isn’t even funny accidentally, darnit, eliminating the possibility that this dud might ever become the cheesy cult classic we were all bracing for. No wonder the poor kitten had a psychotic break.