Back at Miracles, there's yet another dance montage. You have to give Breakin' 2 this: It doesn't pour on the plot and stint on the dance, like some dance movies. Kelly joins the ranks of the center's instructors, and a whole lot of people—from little kids to game thirtysomethings who should really presumably have real jobs by now—freestyle at her command. Cut to a city office with a door prominently marked BUREAU OF ENGINEERING: SURVEY DIVISION, where the developer's weasely, wheedly-voiced, Jerry Lewis-esque Renfield Mr. Randall tells the zoning board about the shopping-mall scheme, glossing over the importance of the community center in a none-too-effective way: "Oh, it's just designed to keep kids off the street." When the zoning commissioner asks where the kids will go when their Miracles is razed, Mr. Randall cues the music by pointing out that they still have "their club, Radiotron." Hey, did someone say Radiotron? Clearly it's time for Stem to perform "Radiotron," and for the kids to dance even more, this time at the club, where Ice-T (in his second film role, following his debut in the first Breakin') comes out in strappy bondage gear to entertain the crowd.
But wait, not everyone in the super-friendly ethnically diverse ghetto is friendly. As Ozone, Turbo, and Kelly hang out in the club, they're challenged by a bunch of well-coordinated Benatar wannabes called Electro Rock. They announce that they rule the dance floor; as Turbo tries to prevent a fight, Kelly announces, in her best unconvincing white-girl voice, "Come on, you guys, let's turn these fooools out!" But when Ozone announces that he will not be wasting his moves on such punks, the face-off breaks up without any dancing whatsoever.
Instead, Ozone and his crew head back to Miracles and learn that it's been declared structurally unsound, and they need $200,000 to fix it, fast. So they launch another montage, where they wash cars, sell lemonade, paint street portraits, and have Magician make balloon animals (but still not do magic). But they only raise a mere $7,000. So Turbo speaks the magic words: "Why don't we just put on a show?"
Shortly thereafter, Kelly's agent informs her, at a ritzy restaurant, that her Feather-Ass dance has somehow earned her an audition in France, "for the lead." No more details are ever offered. She runs off to tell Ozone, for some reason having changed clothes so she looks like a Vegas Strip hooker:
But instead of being happy for her, he's angry that she's abandoning Miracles in its hour of need. A fight might be brewing in Chaste Kiss paradise, but fortunately, a bunch of Electro Rock hoods show up and huck a spray-paint can through one of Miracles' windows. The Miracles crew chase them back to their underpass hideaway, where the lamest dance-off in the history of dance-offs commences, to Ice-T's "Combat." It culminates with the Electro Rock gang whipping out what appear to be dance-chuks, and the Miracles crew defending themselves with trash-can lids:
While both sides dance lamely and no judges are involved, the Electro Rockers fall back in fear and confusion, as Ozone triumphantly announces "TKO!" The confrontation with Mr. Douglas that follows isn't nearly as easy to resolve; he starts surveying the land, assuming victory over those darn kids is assured. When Ozone proclaims that he's going to stop Douglas cold, Douglas purrs "I doubt if an arrogant bunch of street kids have the power to." Now that's some good villainy. It's such effective villainy, in fact, that it causes a cute dancing kid to look up at Byron, wide-eyed, and ask plaintively, "Is that man gonna take away Miracles?"
Much of the rest of the movie proceeds similarly, with the plot clichés only outnumbered by the dialogue clichés, which the amateur cast delivers as stiffly as possible. The kids try to come up with more ways to earn cash. Douglas and his people pressure the zoning commission and move forward with their plan. Yet even more spontaneous dance montages break out. Ozone and Turbo have an uncomfortable dinner with Kelly and her family, hoping to hit up her rich whitebread dad for sponsorship, and not realizing that he's invited that "nerd" lawyer to show up for dinner and make another pitch at wooing Kelly. (By the way, no one ever suggests that maybe Kelly should sell her hot late-model convertible if she really wants to help her hand-to-mouth lower-class buddies.) And so forth and so on. But that only fills out so much time, so Breakin' 2 pads out the action with two irrelevant oddities, one bizarre, and one just boring. In the latter sequence, Turbo dances alone to Mark Scott's "I Don't Want To Come Down," and the filmmakers spin the room so he can dance on the walls and the ceiling, in a bit stolen from Fred Astaire in Royal Wedding:
Unfortunately, in spite of the staging, this is the film's most overblown and overlong sequence; it feels like the filmmakers felt the spinning room was interesting enough, so Turbo's entire dance consists of minor moves, variations on The Robot, and "Aren't you impressed?" grins at the camera. Of far more interest, simply because it's so bloody bizarre: Turbo seeks love advice from Ozone, who shows him how to practice his sketchy pickup moves on a life-sized woman doll Ozone has lying around for some creepy reason. In an scene that combines operatic drama with breakin' variations on the waltz, the two dancers alternate time with the doll, which they each see as their own ladylove, leading to jealousy when the other cuts in. Fortunately, when their competition has the inevitable result on the doll, it frees them up to finally explore their mutual passion, Y Tu Mamá También-style:
Elsewhere, Kelly cinches that job "as the lead" in Paris by donning her best stripper gear and showing off her best pole-dancing moves. This scene is doubly hilarious, both for the contrast between Kelly and all the other dancers—they look like they just walked in from A Chorus Line, she looks like she's arrived from the late stages of Showgirls—and for the frequent cuts to the director and producers auditioning Kelly, who keep whispering among themselves while watching her, presumably trying to find out which of them posted the audition announcement in the local gentleman's club. But Kelly's fashion choices pay off, and she secures that lead role in whatever it is. Will she let vague fame and fortune carry her away, or hang around to help Miracles? After a confrontation with Ozone, her choice seems clear, but then tragedy strikes as Turbo, while taunting Douglas' surveyors and stealing their shit, falls down a flight of stairs and winds up in the hospital. It's all almost briefly worrisome, except that his trip to the ICU turns into a hilariously over-the-top dance number called "When I.C.U."
Dig the ass-wiggling nurses and the wacky surgery comedy. Did "Weird" Al Yankovic see this film before making the video for "Like A Surgeon" the following year?
Just when it seems like the movie couldn't get any worse/better, bulldozers descend on Miracles ahead of schedule, and the kids jump on them to stage yet another impromptu dance party. Douglas spurs them on anyway, but Turbo's new girlfriend sneaks him out of the hospital in time to have him stand in front of the advancing vehicles, throwing things at the drivers, until the cringing, pencil-necked head bulldozer operator announces "We came here to do a job, not to kill kids! We're going home!" Then all the bulldozer drivers apparently take their vehicles back to their houses, while Douglas rants and raves. Turbo's friends triumphantly loft him into the air and ritualistically rip off his bandages, just as the media shows up to get everyone on the kids' side. Kelly tells off her controlling dad and gives up on Paris, as a shirtless Ozone balefully watches.
And then it's time for the big show, where Ice-T sets the scene in surprisingly G-rated style: "Now this is not a party, this is a demonstration / to try to counteract the city council legislation… So reach into your pocket and give us a sign / A quarter, a nickel, or even a dime! Everybody in the place, sing along with me / Everybody in the place, G-I-V-E!"
And they do. Alas, in spite of yet another lengthy dance montage, yet another ridiculous slut costume from Kelly, still more breakin', and the promised vast quantities of eye-hurting Day-Glo, the kids only raise $120,000 by passing the hat. Even the participation of the suddenly friendly members of Electro Rock can't turn the tide. Thank God, Kelly's dad finally sees the error of his ways and shows up to write a check for the extra $50,000 to put Miracles over the top. All that's missing is a shot of Douglas punching a hole through his hat in frustration, Ross-Perot-on-The Simpsons style.
There's so much material I'm not covering here, like the klutzy love triangle between Kelly, Ozone, and an wretched actor who makes them look like Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant by comparison. Or the way Randall backs off the project after one of the kids calls him "wack" and he seemingly hears "whacked," and starts cringing as though someone's planning to off him. Or the big City Council showdown, or the film's heavy emphasis on cute kids attempting to breakdance, or… the list goes on and on. Every minute contains a new reason to howl in surprise and derision.
How much of the experience wasn't a total waste of time? At an absolute minimum, 85 percent. Breakin' 2 is utterly hilarious. Many of the dance sequences are redundant and overlong, but even so, there's always something ill-conceived and hysterical to look at, from fluffy '80s hair to terrible fashions. (Apparently full-on school-band uniforms were really hot in the '80s San Francisco breakdance scene.) The cheesy acting, monumentally trite storyline, and all-around camp level kept our whole musicals-watching party howling in disbelief. It's a lousy movie to watch alone, or with any serious expectations in mind. But in the "so bad it's good" pantheon, it ranks surprisingly high. It's almost—almost—a pity there was never a Breakin' 3: Electric Jubilee.
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