GLITTER

This thinly veiled pseudo-autobiographical op — the making of which reportedly sent puffy-cheeked Mariah Carey into a spiral of self-help — tells the story of Billie Frank (Carey), a girl with a stunning set of lungs, doey eyes, and rock-star ambitions. Abandoned by her alkie jazz-singer mom (Valarie Pettiford), Billie is left to grow up in New York’s loose ’80s nightlife scene working as a scantily clad dancer. Soon enough, Dice (Max Beesley), a tank-topped DJ impresario and a Mark Wahlberg beefy bad-boy wanna-be, decides to produce, woo, and eventually emotionally abuse her as Billie manages to shimmy her way to #1, leaving him in the dust.

Gee, could this be Mariah’s take on Tommy Mottola, her real-life career helper ex-hubbie? Throughout Billie’s career of slamming those high notes à la Whitney, the intolerable vanity-fueled film lays it on thick. Director Vondie Curtis Hall uses liquid slo-mo cuts, sped-up camera spans, and trite lines to kill whatever sliver of trashy amusement Glitter might deliver. And as if the predictable plot weren’t enough, Mariah lays a coat of cheese underneath with her songs from the soundtrack. “She was kind of fragile,” she crows, “but she kept it all inside.” If only. At the Boston Common, the Fenway, the Fresh Pond, and the Chestnut Hill and in the suburbs.

— Nina Willdorf