Bring It On

I was halfway through a bag of slightly stale Flamin' Hot Cheetos when the opening sequence of Bring It On hit my screen, and I realized that the orange dust on my fingers was almost the exact same shade as the Rancho Carne Toros’ uniforms. It’s a fitting coincidence, because this movie is exactly like that snack: neon-colored, surprisingly spicy, and far more addictive than any "teen comedy" has any right to be.

The first time I saw this, I dismissed it as just another piece of Y2K fluff—the kind of movie you’d find in the "3 for $20" bin at a closing Blockbuster. But looking back at it twenty-four years later, Peyton Reed (who eventually jumped to the MCU with Ant-Man) didn't just make a movie about pom-poms; he made a sharp, satirical, and weirdly prophetic look at cultural theft that feels more relevant in the age of TikTok than it did in the year 2000.

The Cheer-ocracy is Crumbling

The movie kicks off with a fever-dream opening sequence that perfectly captures the "Peak Dunst" era. Kirsten Dunst plays Torrance Shipman, the newly minted captain of the five-time national champion Toros. She’s got the perky-to-a-fault energy that made her a star, but she’s also the audience’s moral compass. When a new transfer student, the punk-rock gymnast Missy (Eliza Dushku, channeling every ounce of Buffy’s Faith energy), informs Torrance that their winning routine was actually stolen from a school in East Compton, the movie shifts gears from a simple sports comedy to something much more interesting.

This is where the movie earns its stripes. Most teen films from this era would have made the East Compton Clovers the "villains" for being the competition. Instead, Gabrielle Union’s Isis is the hero of her own story. She’s rightfully furious, composed, and absolutely out-cheering the Toros with zero budget and zero recognition. Isis is the true MVP of this movie, and the fact that she doesn't get a solo spin-off is a 21st-century tragedy.

Comedy with a Combat Rhythm

The humor here isn't just about punchlines; it’s about the rhythm. Screenwriter Jessica Bendinger treats the "spirit fingers" and "cheer-offs" like high-stakes combat. The dialogue is snappy and filled with a weird, specific jargon that shouldn't work but somehow becomes iconic. We all know the "I’m sexy, I’m cute, I’m popular to boot" chant, but it’s the smaller character beats that kill me.

Take the "toothbrushing scene" between Torrance and Cliff (Jesse Bradford). It’s a three-minute sequence where two teenagers brush their teeth next to each other, and it’s arguably the most romantic thing filmed in the early 2000s. There’s no dialogue, just awkward eye contact and foam. It’s a masterclass in physical chemistry that makes most modern rom-coms look like they’re trying too hard. Then you have the supporting cast, like Sherry Hursey and Holmes Osborne as Torrance’s parents, who perfectly capture that specific brand of "supportive but deeply confused" suburban parent energy.

Behind the Spirit Stick

The production value of Bring It On is surprisingly high for a $28 million comedy. The DVD extras from back in the day—which I watched until the disc was scratched to hell—revealed that the cast went through a grueling four-week cheerleading boot camp. They aren't using stunt doubles for the majority of those sequences. When you see Kirsten Dunst or Eliza Dushku hitting a stunt, they are actually doing the work, and that physicality gives the film a weight that CGI-heavy modern films lack.

It's also a fascinating time capsule of the transition from the 90s to the 2000s. We’ve got the Winamp-era technology, the baggy jeans, and the soundtrack that feels like a "Now That's What I Call Music!" fever dream. But beneath the gloss, the film tackles the idea of privilege with a surprisingly light touch. Big Red is the greatest cinematic villain of the early 2000s, not because she’s a monster, but because she’s a mediocre person who built a legacy on someone else’s hard work.

Ultimately, Bring It On isn't a "guilty pleasure"—it's just a great movie. It’s a film that respects the athleticism of its subjects while poking fun at the absurdity of the subculture. It balances the high-octane energy of a sports movie with a script that actually has something to say about accountability.

If you haven't revisited Rancho Carne in a while, do yourself a favor and put this on. It’s smart, it’s fast, and the chemistry between the cast is lightning in a bottle. Just maybe skip the spirit stick—we all know that thing is cursed. If you can watch the final competition without wanting to learn the routine yourself, you might need to check your pulse.