Ranking the Stank Levels of Bridesmaids' Six Leading Dames
Here at Movieline we've been tracking the stank levels of Bridesmaids' six premier pimpstresses since the first poster arrived in January sporting clinical sass, high levels of thug jaw, and traditional drag realness. So ferosh. So fire-faced. And while the finished film contained a surprising amount of base humor and slapstick cheapness, the sexy sextet still dished major attitude daggers and saucy voodoo, all while gyrating in the face of sassless Kate Hudson-types everywhere.
Without further ado, let's play the "Vogue" 12" remix, prepare our snapping fingers of Harlem electricity, flash some strobes on the bridal catwalk, and rank Bridesmaids' cold-ass broads by the amount of stank in their stank gauges. (Spoilers, obviously.)
6. Ellie Kemper: Girl, girl, girl. What happened to your potential for stank supremacy? Did you lose it in your gun purse? Did you leave it at the brass knuckles bank? You were a sleeper maid from the start, giggling like a baby sister and grinning like the Wendy's logo to shield your hardness, but your only moment of face-humping jaguar grit came after your quick airplane makeout with Superfly Puma Empress Wendi McLendon-Covey. Then we never saw your stank-kitty growl-ass again! Perhaps you became too saucy and ice-broad-stankity for the film after the makeout, but your freaky-deeky momentum stalled out far too early. Please exit our four-story catwalk without a parachute.
Sisterchild, you may have wagged the finger of authority when schooling Wiig after her cookie sabotage and mile-high stank attack, but you were not a she-woman headmistress of funk in this film. I'm sorry. You were too vulnerable, too jabber-jabberdy, too cute; you did not break off your stiletto, slash hard-voguer Rose Byrne across the aorta, and run off with a bucket of jewels under your train. I respect your mid-street intestinal attack -- that was truly a prehistoric display of original-definition stank. But I cannot rank you higher than fifth. You will eat your sass-free cake alone this evening; adieu and good day and you're over.
Please observe this down-ass dame. You will note the Mae West head-cock. You will note the stone-eyed rumble fire. You will note the ghetto blaze of the posture. You will avert your glance when the stank becomes a solar flare. But you will wince slightly when you watch the movie, where jive-ass duchess Melissa McCarthy forfeits the unholy she-devil power for bathroom humor and pity laughs. She is a gross-out vixen, not an out-sass veteran. I respect the poses, but I dismiss the wack joke-telling.
Oh, here is a thunder-cheeked sorceress with eyelashes of sheet metal. Wendi werks hard in her very few scenes, doubling up the dirty stank to make up for screentime. Ellie Kemper, please bear witness: Wendi gives you mad parenting superstank and hollers four-letter words at her spawn; she'll give you the number of her hairdresser with the coke trove; she'll drink you under a trench; she'll juke with reggaeton dancehall fire while downing shots; she'll suck face with a lady ginger and inhale her soul with a gust of vamp diggity. That is bronze medal brass. Bow at the broad's fast-dancing feet.
Hail Ms. Grande Dame Kristen Wiig. Hail her. Hail her Xanax-and-Scotch stupor at 35,000 feet. Hail her realness tantrum at the evil bridal shower held by Rose Byrne. Hail her topless driving in sly seduction of a police officer. Wave a palm frond at her gutsy rendition of the Wilson Phillips anthem. This is skinny lady skankitudinal superpowers in the house, you all. Voguers shall surround Wiig in geometric formations, idolizing the grit and applauding the nerve. They will grant her a silver medal for stank well done, pausing only to worship the jive-faced Jesus of Bridesmaid stank maidenhood. She is shooting lightning bolts out of her hips below.
Oh, hi, this is just Athena's perfect face paired with Aphrodite's angry jawline, the legend of Patty Hewes, and a vicious stank fireball that is splitting the Parthenon in two. That is all. Rose Byrne is Bridesmaids' alpha, omega, and firepower concession stand. Do note the cackling evil when she buys Maya Rudolph a trip to Paris, defying Kristen Wiig's word. Do note her Natasha Fatale schemes. Do marvel at her Thai toast that sends the Wiig into a trembling fugue state. Do attempt to handle her funkadelics. You will not succeed. You will only throw gold at her skim-milky legs, shielding your stare from the blinding platinum shank she will thrust into your thigh. She is the winner. She is the bride in fire's nuptials.