Delivering my sincerest apologies to all pop culture and fashion aficionados, for I have committed the 8th cardinal sin and spent all these years living under a deceitful facade. Today marks 20 years of the seismic wonder that is Mean Girls, and my association with the movie is just 2 days-old. Yes, it took me two decades to finally watch the movie, which by the way, has been watched by almost every soul on planet earth – Gen Zs, millennials, boomers, you name it.
But this isn’t the primary cause of bother for me. The issue lies with my job profile and the requirements of it, you see. I’m a fashion journalist and I work at a leading fashion and lifestyle publication, if the job description would’ve listed “Must Have Watched Mean Girls,’ no one would bat an eye. It’s expected. It’s accepted. It’s the norm.
The ‘Burn Book’, the ‘On Wednesdays We Wear Pink’ reference, the ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ dance – there’ve been countless times I’ve pretended to know what’s happening around me, with references casually thrown around during Monday pitch meetings. The mindless nodding and half-formed smirks during those instances were some of my finest works, I strongly believe that.
FYI: This is not a Mean Girls review. Neither is it an account of the debilitating shame I’ve lived through, courtesy my unintentional reluctance to watch the widely-loved flick. Talk about ‘pick me’ energy. I wasn’t putting it off because everyone’s watched it and I somehow reprimand those who indulge in some mainstream business. Looks like it, but hear me out. It just never crossed my radar. Was never on any watch-list. It’s pretty inconsequential if you ask me, but still shocking somehow. To me and my colleagues. And my friends who will now read this, post my editor hits publish.
For me, a fully developed (I hope) 23 year-old, Mean Girls was surprisingly impressive. A little outmoded, now that the social climate is more sensitive. It’s 2024 and we don’t go around calling people sk*nks. Thank god.
The legendary movie captures the life of Cady Heron, essayed by Lindsay Lohan, a South African teen who was only homeschooled before attending an American high school. She enters a world inhabited by a hateful trio, known as ‘The Plastics,’ who want to establish a hierarchy inside the educational system. She harbours an initial dislike but ultimately gives in when there’s scope of climbing the social ladder by becoming a part of the problem. Then the realisation hits (also, a bus brutally hits someone), and all is good. Not the bus part, obviously.
The usual ending, nothing extraordinary. But I see it. I see why it’s still a phenomenon and considered one of the finest chick flicks of all time. There’s this timeless quality attached to Mean Girls, all thanks to brilliant performances, cheeky remarks, aptly fleshed out characters and a welcome dearth of cringe. Rare. Mean Girls knows what goes into the making of a ‘mean girl.’ This is what they get right. They’re not born with it, they’re made. They’re manufactured. Like dolls. An army of them stands, falls and a new one quickly assumes duties to replace the previous batch. I’m glad I watched it.
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