The parents look on in horror; the children, including Ray, slowly begin to dance. Molly doesn't save the day with a checkbook or a speech. She saves it by looking ridiculous, by refusing to be ashamed of her own joy. In a film about the terror of growing up, Molly’s ultimate act of maturity is dancing like an idiot in public. Uptown Girls was released in the shadow of 9/11 and the rise of hyper-capitalist "reality" TV. It was too quirky for the mainstream and too sad for a comedy. But today, in an era of "girlboss" fatigue and the collapse of the gig economy, Molly Gunn feels like a patron saint.
Uptown Girls isn't a movie about a woman who learns to be responsible. It is a movie about a woman who learns that responsibility doesn't have to kill your spirit. It argues that the only way to survive the "uptown" demands of perfection is to remain a little bit messy, a little bit loud, and a little bit willing to dance to a one-hit wonder from 1993.
In the sprawling graveyard of early 2000s cinema, most films have aged like a forgotten tube of glitter gel—crusty, sticky, and slightly embarrassing. But every so often, a movie that was dismissed as “fluff” upon release reveals itself to be a Trojan Horse for genuine existential dread. Uptown Girls (2003), starring a diaphanous Brittany Murphy and a shockingly precocious Dakota Fanning, is that Trojan Horse. Uptown Girls
Critics called her vapid. They missed the point.
Fanning, at just nine years old, delivers a performance of surgical precision. She doesn't play Ray as a "cute" grump; she plays her as a tightly wound adult trapped in a small body. The chemistry between Murphy and Fanning is the engine of the film. It isn’t the saccharine "you teach me to dance, I’ll teach you to love" dynamic of lesser films. It is transactional and angry. The parents look on in horror; the children,
In a quiet, devastating moment, Ray washes the glitter out of Molly’s hair. There is no score swelling. There is no hug. Just the sound of water and Fanning’s tiny hands working through Murphy’s knots. Ray says, "You know, when I was a little kid, my mom used to wash my hair."
It is the most intimate, heartbreaking two minutes in any teen comedy of that era. It is a scene about maternal loss—Ray missing her absent mother, Molly missing her dead one. In that bathroom, the roles reverse, collapse, and become irrelevant. They are just two orphans cleaning up the mess. The climax of the film is legendary. To save Ray from her parents' sterile, life-denying fear, Molly—drunk, desperate, and brilliant—stages a "performance art" piece on a lawn. She puts a boombox on a picnic table, presses play on Tag Team’s "Whoomp! (There It Is)," and begins to dance alone. In a film about the terror of growing
It is absurd. It is pathetic. It is transcendent.