Mike McCahill 

The Best Man Holiday – review

Smartphone-reliant farce and slick R&B tunes abound in a festive sequel that is utterly detached from reality, writes Mike McCahill
  
  

The Best Man Holiday
Genially soapy … Taye Diggs, Morris Chestnut and and Monica Calhoun in The Best Man Holiday. Photograph: Michael Gibson/AP Photograph: Michael Gibson/AP

The Best Man, a so-so film from 1999 directed by Spike Lee's milder-mannered cousin Malcolm, begat the turn-of-the-millennium "buppie" (black yuppie) cycle. This tardy festive reunion is so utterly detached from ground-level realities that it transcends the aspirational to alight upon semi-alien life forms. Can Brits identify with Morris Chestnut's multimillionaire running back? Emmy-laden TV exec Nia Long? A passing Real Housewife? All smartphone-reliant farce and slick R&B tunes, it's a genially soapy time-killer, though Lee's as shameless in invoking cancer as he is about the catfights and smacktalk. Housewife: "I didn't swallow dick for tips, you dirty skank!" And a merry Christmas to you too, dear.

 

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