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'From Justin to Kelly' predictably shallow
Critic's rating: H1/2 (out of four)
Director: Robert Iscove
Stars: Kelly Clarkson, Justin Guarini, Katherine Bailess
MPAA rating: PG for thematic elements, sensuality and brief language
OK. It's not 1 percent as entertaining as "Where the Boys Are," which is the "King Lear" of Fort Lauderdale spring break romantic comedies, and not one-tenth as bad as "The Real Cancun."
"How Not to Make a Musical," or "From Justin to Kelly" as it's better known, concerns three girls who connect with several boys during spring break south of Georgia.
It stars Kelly Clarkson and Justin Guarini, 15-minute-famous people from the first installment of TV's "American Idol," here using their real first names.
She's vacationing with Kaya (Anika Noni Rose), who calls herself a party girl, and the pathological liar Alexa (Katherine Bailess), self-proclaimed queen of conniving.
While Kaya flirts with a waiter named Carlos (Jason Yribar), Kelly gives her phone number to Justin, and the two are sabotaged for 80 punishing minutes by Alexa the hussy.
Justin, in one of the plot's 50 most underdeveloped threads (but thank you for leaving it that way), runs some sort of party promotion/beach activity company with Brandon (Greg Siff), who thinks he's hot stuff, and Eddie (Brian Dietzen).
In one major dramatic development, Eddie is sunburned to a crisp. Hours later, he's pale white again. No peeling, even. What a remedy he must have.
It's good to see a picture drenched in sunlight, but the acting is intolerable, and if the Kim Fuller screenplay were any shallower, it would have to burrow underground.
"Justin" features several vocals, but there's a complete audio disconnect every time the music begins and the actors begin lip-synching.
Nearly all movie musical songs are pre-recorded and lip-synched, but here the artifice is underscored. There's no ambient noise in places where there would have to be a lot, as on beaches, and invisible choruses keep chiming in with highly studio-processed sounds.
Travis Payne's choreography is the sort you'd find annoying little children doing at wedding receptions when they're crowding their elders off the dance floor. Lots of arms flailing and lots of swaying. Oprah Winfrey could do this stuff with Al Gore.
As if to summarize the quality of the choreography and of the songs, one boy sings, "Poke your arms in the air, and wave like you just don't care." Ran that one past Stephen Sondheim, did you?
But then, the direction is so inept, Fred and Ginger needn't wince in heaven. No focus on the feet. No cohesive view of the movement. "Justin" is staged in a perpetual state of quick-cut chaos.
Just for the census-conscious: I was the only guy in an opening-day audience of one mom and 16 adolescent girls.
