In leading with Janet Jackson's "Control," shorthand for a defiant sort of self-assertion, Hustlers would like to be a movie about a particular type of empowerment--the type that celebrates women rising above the obstacles of a corrupt and unjust world, of course. It fails because, like so many of us, it wants to have its cake and eat it too. It also fails because it’s simply not empowering.

It criticizes capitalism (via Wall Street marks and commentary on 2008’s financial meltdown) while regaling in it (frenzied shopping sprees, chinchilla coat gifts); it excoriates the strippers’ clients for their sleaze while urging the viewer to tap into their own during redundant, extended scenes at the club.

But it didn’t have to be this way. The core cast—Jennifer Lopez, Constance Wu, Keke Palmer, and Lili Reinhart—is strong and has a fizzy chemistry that could have easily piloted a different and much more interesting movie. Here, Lopez gamely wraps her mama bear cloak around her established tough-broad persona. She has always projected a sort of supernatural comfort with herself and this role takes full advantage with every charm offensive and slow-mo sashay (of which there are many, many). Reinhart brings an impish irreverence to an underwritten role. Then again, all of the roles are underwritten.

I had the impression that the women’s stories and relationships were once the core of the film, but these had predictably given way to the Hollywood machine keen on marketing to the lowest common denominator. The product that remains is exploitative, oddly and agonizingly paced, and—perhaps most damningly—somehow sullies the shine of the perfect "Love in This Club." Ayyyy.