‘Girl Group’ Review: Rebel Wilson’s Bawdy Pop Comedy Is All Fizz and Little Substance

By the time Rebel Wilson's "Girl Group" nears its conclusion, the film dissolves into what amounts to an unbroken string of pop performances. A glitzy, high-energy homage to "Pitch Perfect" that borrows its mentor-and-misfits framework directly from "Bad News Bears," the movie stages these musical sequences so clumsily that they evoke a very different pop saga: Brady Corbet's "Vox Lux," where Natalie Portman's superstar turns into a grieving symbol of the hollowness lurking beneath the celebrity apparatus. "Girl Group," which trails a plucky crew of dreamers angling for a recording deal, occupies a universe almost diametrically opposed to that desolation—it might as well hail from another solar system—and Wilson, positioned as the troupe's mentor, appears virtually oblivious that such pessimism could exist. A comedic talent who constructed her career around embodying what she termed, in her memoir, "the fat funny girl," Wilson cares only about glitz and laughs, transforming "Girl Group" into a shiny audience-pleaser built to have viewers tapping their feet and singing along while their minds switch off. Sometimes that is exactly what the occasion demands—a simple, soothing diversion for a long-haul flight or a late-night snack binge. The film even seems to acknowledge its own place in the featherweight category when, following a tough day, a character proposes to her sister that they go home, get comfortable, and watch "Pitch Perfect."

Despite assembling a lineup of powerhouse singers—Nicole Scherzinger and Ashley Roberts of The Pussycat Dolls, Mel C of the Spice Girls, and Shaznay Lewis of All Saints—"Girl Group" never attains the emotional peaks of that infinitely rewatchable series, nor does it appear to try. The Pussycat Dolls, formed in 1995 by choreographer Robin Antin, became one of the best-selling girl groups of the 2000s with hits like "Don't Cha," while the Spice Girls, who sold over 100 million records worldwide, remain the definitive British pop phenomenon of the 1990s. Instead, the film contentedly settles into the role of a lesser offering: an amiable, breezy trifle that lives entirely in the moment and vanishes like stage haze the instant it concludes. The narrative begins in 1997, when five friends at a London girls' school get ready for an auditorium show. Backstage, a nervous crew member confesses her anxiety to her teacher (a fleeting but sharp appearance by Sally Hawkins), just before the friends—performing as Gurlfriends—take the stage and bring the house down. That opening yields to a swift montage chronicling the group's rise, which ends when one member, Tassie (portrayed as an adult by Wilson), abandons her bandmates for a solo career. The solo bet fails, plunging Tassie into a drunken tailspin from which she finally surfaces to discover she has been swapped out on the reunion tour by a trilling diva. That is where the actual story kicks off, and Wilson would have been better served placing it at the film's heart from the start.

Ordered to perform community service at a youth center, Tassie encounters a group of Gen Z teenagers she is supposed to coach before a major competition. The disgraced celebrity views their abilities as a tool for repairing her public image, but the spirited, driven youngsters have their own plans, and as Tassie tries to shape them into a polished image of millennial pop stardom, her self-absorption starts undermining their chances. There are tepid attempts at generational conflict over female sexuality and pop-star image, as when a younger member observes that Gurlfriends were "totally playing into the male gaze." Yet those instances are so sparse that Wilson seems to have dropped the thread partway through—or, more plausibly, deemed it too contentious to pursue. That is understandable: tangled debates about how famous women should present themselves will not be resolved by a slapstick comedy more focused on rapid-fire gags. Much of the comedy depends on crude jokes, dotted with a few modern pop-culture allusions. And while Wilson discusses weight and body image frankly in her memoir, the film crams in a surprising quantity of size-related humor. At one point, a kid comments that Tassie looks like she "ate" Sabrina Carpenter. In another scene, Jennifer Coolidge, playing Gurlfriends' manager with gusto, pushes Tassie to endorse Splurt, a nutrition bar with laxative effects. The risk of a public sprint to the restroom does not escape mention.

Among the predictable jokes, the younger cast's chemistry stands out as the film's greatest strength, their relaxed interplay and naturalism offering a counterbalance to the mechanical screenplay. Chabely Ponce makes an impression as a guitar-playing singer, and Lilah Pate shines as the group's lead vocalist, even though she is burdened with a clumsily executed scene involving a forceful, unwanted kiss. Their collective energy hints at a warmer film—one where the underdogs seize the spotlight and grow into more self-assured individuals. Yet amid the chaos, and often overshadowed by Wilson's scene-stealing, their storylines end up sidelined. Their dynamism may erode Tassie's ego, but it cannot rescue the movie surrounding them on its own.