He's All That

In the summer of 2021, the Netflix algorithm coughed up a piece of digital ephemera that felt like it was grown in a lab using nothing but blue-light filters and TikTok analytics. He’s All That didn't just reboot the 1999 teen classic She’s All That; it attempted to transplant the beating heart of a 90s rom-com into the sterile, ring-light-illuminated body of a Gen Z influencer. The result is a film that exists in a strange, shimmering limbo—it’s too glossy to be a cult classic, yet too weirdly hollow to be a standard-bearer for the genre. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a sponsored post: you see it, you scroll past it, and three minutes later, you’ve forgotten what it was even selling.

The Algorithm vs. The Art

I sat down to watch this while my neighbor was apparently auditioning for a percussion ensemble using only a hammer and a shared wall, and somehow, the rhythmic banging was less distracting than the sheer amount of product placement in this movie. From the literal opening frame, He’s All That wants you to know that its protagonist, Padgett Sawyer (Addison Rae), is a brand. She’s a "beauty influencer" whose entire life is curated for the camera, until a public breakup (complete with a snot-filled livestream) ruins her reputation. To get back on top, she bets her rival Madison Pettis (playing the mean-girl Alden) that she can turn the school’s scruffiest loser into a Prom King.

Enter Cameron Kweller (Tanner Buchanan). In the 1999 original, Rachael Leigh Cook was "ugly" because she wore glasses and liked art. In 2021, Cameron is "unattractive" because he wears a beanie, carries a vintage camera, and—heaven forbid—doesn't have an Instagram account. Tanner Buchanan, who spends most of his time being a martial arts prodigy on Cobra Kai, plays Cameron with a brooding, "I’m too cool for this" energy that suggests he’d rather be literally anywhere else. His makeover is effectively just a haircut and a shower, proving that in the streaming era, the barrier to being "all that" is simply basic hygiene.

A Haircut and a Prayer

The film was directed by Mark Waters, the man who gave us the untouchable Mean Girls and the delightful Freaky Friday. You can see flashes of his competence in the pacing, but the script—written by R. Lee Fleming Jr., who actually wrote the original '99 film—feels like it was translated from English to Emoji and back again. The dialogue is peppered with social media jargon that was already dated by the time the film finished rendering on the Netflix servers.

Addison Rae is the big question mark here. As one of the most followed people on the planet, her casting was a pure business play. Does she have the charisma of a movie star? Not quite. She has the charisma of a very talented salesperson. She’s undeniably likable, but she lacks the "theatrical weight" to make the emotional beats land. Watching her try to deliver a heartfelt monologue is like watching a microwave try to bake a wedding cake—it’s the right temperature, but the texture is all wrong.

The real joy for film nerds comes from the legacy casting. Rachael Leigh Cook returns as Padgett’s mother, and Matthew Lillard—the chaotic soul of the original—shows up as a high school principal who gets a brief, glorious moment to show off his dance moves. These cameos are meant to be a bridge between generations, but they mostly serve as a reminder that the 90s version had a weird, scrappy heart that this update lacks.

The Streaming Slurry

Filmed during the height of COVID-19 protocols in late 2020, there’s an eerie, empty quality to many of the scenes. The parties feel under-populated, and the high school halls are suspiciously quiet. This production reality accidentally heightens the film’s sense of artificiality. Everything is too clean. Even Cameron’s "dirty" horse stable looks like it was staged by an interior designer from HGTV.

The movie’s "big" moments, like a choreographed dance-off at a themed party, feel specifically designed to be clipped for social media. It’s a film that knows its audience has a five-second attention span, so it throws bright colors and fast cuts at the screen to keep the "Are you still watching?" prompt from appearing. It is less a movie and more a 91-minute brand activation for a ring light.

What makes He’s All That interesting as a "forgotten" contemporary piece is how perfectly it captures the transition of the movie star. We are moving away from actors who can command a room and toward personalities who can command a feed. It’s a fascinating, if slightly depressing, cultural artifact of a moment when the film industry was desperately trying to figure out how to monetize the TikTok generation.

Ultimately, He’s All That is a harmless, sugary snack that leaves a slightly chemical aftertaste. It’s a fascinating look at the "streaming-first" philosophy where the goal isn't to make a classic, but to occupy a slot in a trending list for a weekend. I didn't hate my time with it, but I’m fairly certain that if I were to watch it again tomorrow, it would feel like a first-time viewing all over again. It’s a movie that exists in the present tense only, vanishing the moment the credits roll and the "Up Next" preview starts counting down.