Jazz Hands!

One in a series of late-night movie reviews.
"Hey!" I yelled at my homegirl. "Let's get high and watch The Jazz Singer, the incredibly awesome movie starring Neil Diamond as a Jew who becomes a rock star!"
"Okay," she said.
But then, when we got back to my house, it turned out I'd Netflixed All That Jazz instead.
"That's okay," we thought. "That one'll be super-good high too!"
How wrong we were.
All That Jazz is fucking wretched. The story of choreographer Bob Fosse has shitty dance numbers, terrible songs--it's like a pretentiousier Xanadu without the guilty lilting pleasure of (Have to Believe We Are) "Magic"--and tells the delightful story of a coked up prick and his coked up twitlovahs in a not-too-concise two hours and three minutes that take just as long to pass as if you were actually stuck in the company of a coked up prick and his coked up twit lovahs. And it sucks. Even when you're baked!
Also, Jessica Lange is in it as a ghosty Miss Havisham. And I'm pretty sure the orgy dance "Air-Otica"--a ballet based on a porny airline--was paid homage in a Paula Abdul video (perhaps for "Cold Hearted Snake"). And we were just in shock at how bad it was. Like this:
Me: This is fucking HORRIBLE.
She: Yeah, it's fucking BAD. Hey, that's the dad from ALF!
--Fini--