This movie pulled in over 50 million bucks in its first weekend, proving that moviegoers may not get whatever they want but will surely get whatever they deserve.
No sooner does Fantastic Four begin when it becomes clear that nobody, least of all the filmmakers, have any idea what these folks are talking about.
What I do know is that Jessica Alba is the director of genetic research, squarely positioning this film in the realm of science fiction.
“Genetic research!” said Alba. “What a coincidence! I’ve researched jeans at every boutique in South Beach!”
So our four adventurers bolt into space where they’re exposed to some horrifying cosmic rays.
“If I had known I would be doused in radiation,” said Alba “I would have packed some Coppertone and a Stephen King paperback.”
As the cloud hits, Jessica’s molecules splinter into a zillion tiny fragments only to rapidly reassemble. “We considered rematerializing as someone else,” said one fragment, “but most of the world looks like Sally Jessy Raphael. We may be mere molecular fragments but we know a hot configuration when we form one.”
Mysteriously, the radiation has altered their DNA! Alba’s, for example, transforms from a double-helix to a distinctive hourglass shape linked by Vogue back-issue base pairs.
“I’m more evolved than y’all,” she nags, “and it’s all thanks to my DNA, which stands for ‘Deoxy-Ribo-Na-na-na-na-na.’”
Listen, if exposure to cosmic rays made all women look like Jessica Alba, then every Lifetime movie should glow green.
Our genetically re-engineered team includes:
Mr. Fantastic, whose super stretchy flexibility theoretically allows him to lick his own balls. Tastes like chicken, no doubt.
The Thing – part man, mostly orange rock. “If only I had a body scrub I could exfoliate my shoulders into Mount Rushmore,” said he. “It’s clobberin’ time, and here I’m talking about another morning with Regis and Kelly!”
The Invisible Woman, who can make herself disappear and, one hopes, take every available print of this movie with her.
Rosie O’Donnell-Man, whose brutally misanthropic haircut scares the bejesus out of potential enemies – men, women, and ‘tweeners alike.
Together, they are the Fantastic Four! Why? Because being able to scratch your own back, disappearing, spending too much time at the gym, using your own hair as an offensive weapon, and doing it all in spandex – that and a bucket of popcorn can make me forget my day job at the Jiffy-Lube!
Victor Von Doom is the evil nemesis. His company, Von Doom Industries, is having financial trouble. Imagine that, a company called “Doom” failing to attract investors. That’s like a restaurant called Eat Shit failing to attract diners.
Von Doom becomes Dr. Doom. He’s Julian McMahon, an actor who draws on his eyebrows with a Sharpie. Who needs sunglasses when your eyes can relax in the shade of their own garden gazebos?
Doom will wait, but first, the Fantastic Four must take on their most treacherous enemy yet:
“Their money isn’t like ours,” explains Mr. Fantastic, whose first name is “X. S. Formality.”
“Darn them all to Heck!” said The Thing, and saying it that way to protect a PG-13, lest someone on the ratings board discover that, thanks to Jessica Alba, this movie contains at least one guy hard as a rock.
“There’s a Queen on those Canadian bills,” Mr. Fantastic added.
“Ian McKellen?” asked The Human Torch.
“No, a real Queen.”
Why can’t our heroes just get along?
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a little boy,” The Torch yells to Jessica.
“Well maybe if you stop acting like one,” she replies.
This must be the work of the same screenwriter who penned the classic “I know you are but what am I?”
“Flame on!” says Torchy in order to induce self-immolation. If I could bark an order to initiate spontaneous combustion I wouldn’t have had to waste so much time pulling off the 101 to make my ‘smores.
Fantastic Four is a fantastic bore.
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