If the original Mean Girls was a gentled version of Heathers — and yeah, that’s probably unfair, since films should be allowed to stand or fall on their own merits, but for viewers of a certain age, the similarities were simply too salient to ignore, what with the plucky outsider sidling up to but ultimately taking down the trio of gorgeous Gorgons who run things around this here high school — then Mean Girls 2024 is a similarly gentled version of the 2004 original. High school can be a desperate time; no one here feels desperate. The girls just aren’t as mean. The social hierarchies just aren’t as brutal. The betrayals and losses just aren’t as devastating — and it’s not just because we may have seen them before. It may be because the world has gotten meaner in the meantime. Social media has made the notion of a secret “Burn Book” full of nasty comments about one’s adolescent peers positively quaint; today, you could just make an anon account and broadcast your bile to all and sundry — to the point where maybe you’d get back to the suicidal darkness of Heathers! But no, the book is still here, still somehow wreaking havoc even as it has lost the power to accuse someone of, gasp, homosexuality. Here, outcast Janis is out and proud; her animus toward the popular Plastics has to do with a failure of allyship — which is rather less potent as motivations go. In place of the poison, this version has songs, which is probably what you’re here for, since they provide the “new twist” promised on the poster. Some of them are great fun and actually help move the story along — the wildly energetic “Revenge Party” is a positive delight. Others work like anthemic music videos — Regina George’s spooky/sinister “Someone Gets Hurt,” Janis’s poptimist “I’d Rather Be Me.” But a number of them “Meet the Plastics,” “What’s Wrong With Me?” etc. — do little more than raise subtext to text, and the performances aren’t always rendered with enough feeling to make them feel worthwhile. Never thought I’d be able to say that about a teen musical. (How’s that for mean?) (2024) — Matthew Lickona