In his 2002 novel The Russian Debutante's Handbook, Gary Shteyngart refers to 1993 as "the first year when mocking the mainstream had become the mainstream." A decade later, the Charlie's Angels films represent a crisis point for that way of thinking. Like its microscopically more enjoyable predecessor, Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle stitches together send-ups, cheeky references, unreflective irony, half-hearted sexiness, and fashion kitsch into a passable semblance of a movie. It's not so much fun as "fun." It might have worked if there were any brains behind it, but two features and one legendarily awful TV show into his post-music-video career, director McG once again proves that for him, any kind of thought is an afterthought. He seems content to repeat nearly every moment of his first Charlie's Angels movie, and so does everyone else: Drew Barrymore again plays the unconvincing tough chick, Cameron Diaz dances at every opportunity (and the film gives her a good half-dozen chances), and Lucy Liu does whatever it is that she does. Even Bernie Mac, taking over the Bosley role, reprises Bill Murray's habit of looking embarrassed at the material he's forced to perform. Remarkably, an actual detail of the plot—which has Barrymore taking on an Irish mobster ex-boyfriend (Mulholland Dr.'s Justin Theroux) who forced her into the Witness Protection Program—leads to the film's worst moment. When Barrymore reveals her real name to be "Helen Zass," the other characters spend what feels like half an hour trading butt puns, raising the possibility that a class of third-graders might have had a hand in doctoring the script. The film is smart enough to know that verbal humor isn't its strong point, but it doesn't offer much in the way of compensation. Obvious parodies of CSI and Cape Fear muscle against action scenes chaotic enough to make Michael Bay look like Robert Bresson, not to mention stuntwork too clearly created by a roomful of iMacs. Where Bay traffics in two-second shots, McG seems determined to cut that in half, barely giving audiences time to focus on what's on screen. That may be a blessing, but if he keeps up this pace, he'll have to start putting seizure warnings before the credits. It's probably worth mentioning that a robotically toned Demi Moore resurfaces here. She looks like she's doing well, but she can go away again any time she likes.