Channing Tatum gets back together with his band of beefy balletic bros for "one last fuckin' ride" in the sequel to Steven Soderbergh's surprisingly sweet stripper saga Magic Mike. There's nothing at stake — their destination is a convention, not a contest, and it's not even clear they'll get to keep the singles that invariably rain down when they do their thing. Instead, these hunks need to find a realistic way to face the future: what happens when the six-pack subsides? Who are they and what do they want to be? Certainly not the camp roles they've been playing: fireman, Navy officer, etc. Maybe they should dance their way to genuine self-discovery? (But of course, it's less dancing than it is exaggerated sexual pantomime. It's impressive as hell, but it's not terribly artful. And it's when the fantasy veers too close to reality that the glitter and greasepaint start to show.) Along the way, the former Kings of Tampa dance at a drag show, party on the beach, visit a subscription-based strip-house that caters to ladies of color, pop Molly, dazzle the dumpy, comfort the neglected, and halfheartedly squabble their way toward inner peace. Oh, and Tatum finds time to search out the stolen smile of a reluctant stripper (Amber Heard) who's not into guys at the moment. With Donald Glover, Andie MacDowell, Elizabeth Banks, et alia. (2015) — Matthew Lickona
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