Mean Girls

The 2024 version of Mean Girls arrived in theaters carrying a very specific kind of modern baggage: the "secret musical" marketing strategy. I watched the trailers along with everyone else, noticing how the studio desperately scrubbed away any hint of a jazz hand or a belt-y chorus, seemingly terrified that Gen Z might flee the cinema if they realized characters were going to burst into song. It’s a strange, post-pandemic phenomenon where studios treat musical theater like a contagious disease rather than a genre. But once I sat down—accidentally biting my tongue on a dry pretzel during the first five minutes, adding a literal sting to the high school angst—the truth came out. This isn't just a remake; it’s a neon-soaked, TikTok-filtered adaptation of a Broadway show based on a DVD-era classic.

The Broadway-to-TikTok Pipeline

The most immediate thing you notice about this iteration is how it grapples with the ghost of 2004. Tina Fey (returning as both writer and Ms. Norbury) is essentially remixing her own greatest hits, but the rhythm is entirely different. Where the original film was a sharp, satirical bite at the early-aughts "girl world," this version feels like a glossy, vertical-video fever dream.

The direction by Samantha Jayne and Arturo Perez Jr. leans heavily into the visual language of the 2020s. We see the burn book rumors spread via rapid-fire social media montages and split-screen franticness. It’s a smart way to modernize the "phone tree" sequence, but it also means the film occasionally feels like a TikTok challenge that accidentally gained sentience and a $36 million budget. The cinematography by Bill Kirstein trades the flat, suburban look of the original for something more theatrical and saturated. It works during the big numbers, but in the quiet moments, it can feel a bit like a high-end commercial for a makeup brand that sponsors influencers.

The Regina George Power Hour

Let’s be honest: you’re here for the Queen Bee, and Reneé Rapp does not just play Regina George; she consumes the role whole. Having played the part on Broadway, Reneé Rapp understands the assignment perfectly. She doesn't try to mimic Rachel McAdams’ "sugar-coated poison" vibe. Instead, she brings a sultry, predatory menace that makes the musical numbers—specifically "World Burn"—the undisputed highlights of the film. When she’s on screen, the movie finds its spine.

On the other side of the hallway, Angourie Rice has the unenviable task of being the "normal" one. Angourie Rice is a talented actor (I loved her in The Nice Guys and Mare of Easttown), but here she feels a bit overwhelmed by the vocal demands and the sheer theatricality of the ensemble. There is a noticeable "vocal disparity" when she shares scenes with Auliʻi Cravalho (the voice of Moana herself), who plays Janis with a refreshing, rebellious edge. Auliʻi Cravalho and Jaquel Spivey, as Damian, are the real heart of the film. Their chemistry is effortless, and Jaquel Spivey manages to take lines we’ve all quoted for twenty years and make them feel like he just thought of them.

A Different Kind of Plastic

The comedy here is a bit of a mixed bag. Many of the iconic jokes are preserved word-for-word, which is a double-edged sword. When Avantika (as Karen) or Bebe Wood (as Gretchen) deliver a classic line, I found myself comparing it to the original delivery instead of just laughing. However, Avantika manages to carve out her own space as a delightfully dim-witted Karen, turning her big musical number, "Sexy," into a genuinely funny piece of physical comedy.

What’s interesting about this contemporary lens is how it handles the "meanness." In 2004, the cruelty felt more visceral because it was physical—the Burn Book was a tangible object. In 2024, the cruelty is digital and decentralized. The film tries to comment on how "cancel culture" and social media shaming have replaced the old-school cafeteria snubbing, but it never quite cuts deep enough to be true satire. It stays in the lane of "pleasant entertainment" rather than "biting social commentary."

Apparently, the production actually used some of the original costumes as inspiration, but updated them to look like something you’d find in an influencer’s closet today. The wardrobe looks like a Shein haul gone horribly wrong, which I suppose is actually quite accurate for how modern high schoolers dress. It’s that specific brand of "fast-fashion chic" that dates a movie the second it hits the screen.

Ultimately, Mean Girls (2024) is a fun, bright, and slightly uneven tribute to a story that has become a cornerstone of the American teen canon. It doesn't replace the original—nothing could—but it offers a high-energy alternative for a generation that views the world through a 9:16 aspect ratio. While some of the musical transitions feel clunky and the pacing occasionally stumbles, the powerhouse performances from the supporting cast keep it afloat. It’s a "fetch" attempt that lands somewhere in the middle: not quite a classic, but certainly not a "grool" disaster. If you can get past the marketing bait-and-switch, there’s a lot of talent on display here.