1994 was a very strange year. It made a fiendish debut with the clubbing of Nancy Kerrigan in January and accelerated ghoulishly with the murder of Nicole Brown Simpson in June. A quick succession of notable deaths—for example, Kurt Cobain, Ralph Ellison, Richard Nixon, and Jackie O. in April and May alone—reified the sense of precarity, disturbance, and change. And internationally, well, genocidal conflicts raged in Bosnia and Rwanda.

Turning back to the decidedly more trivial, 1994 also brought us the release of an oddity called Wolf. Directed by Mike Nichols, it stars Jack Nicholson as editor Will Randall, who is traveling home from Vermont in his endearingly boxy Volvo 240, shorthand for good intentions, when he accidentally hits a mysterious creature. When trying to move the seemingly dead animal off the road, he is bitten by a majestic black wolf that trots away triumphantly.

Upon his return to New York, Will is demoted in favor of his trusted protégé, Stewart (James Spader, of course), who’s been working behind the scenes to earn the favor of the publishing house’s new owner, Raymond (Christopher Plummer). Fortuitously, Will’s newly keen senses—smelling morning tequila on a colleague’s breath, hearing conversations from down the hall—are gainfully employed in his office battles. Less fortuitously, they lead him to discover his wife is having an affair with Stewart. Along the way, Will enlists the reluctant interest and help of Raymond’s daughter Laura (Michelle Pfeiffer), an ultra-cool and crafty equestrian.

Though it relishes in the absurd—Will’s leaps flout gravity and a particular scene between Nicholson and Spader imbues the term “pissing contest” with new meaning—the plot has a pleasing cadence and an old-school gloss by way of its cinematography (Giuseppe Rotunno) and score (Ennio Morricone). Ann Roth's costume design is appropriately perfunctory when it comes to the boxy, bland '90s corporate wardrobe the film requires, but inspired when given the chance, as embodied by the Carolina Herrera-meets-Carhartt styling of Pfeiffer.

The cast is blessed with an easy chemistry marked with a subdued tongue-in-cheek wink. Nicholson--inherently lupine--and Pfeiffer—inherently feline, this is Catwoman, after all!—make the most of their extraordinary self-possession as they navigate and conquer rules and consequences. This, of course, makes for an excellent time.

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.