While on vacation in Mexico, Chloe, a ritzy Beverly Hills chihuahua, finds herself lost; with no Rodeo Drive boutiques in sight, she is out of her element. But scrappy street dogs Delgado and Papi lend her a paw, helping her find her way home.
Beverly Hills Chihuahua isn't terrible. OK, it's kind of terrible, but it's a talking-dog movie, and anyone who goes to a talking-dog movie without being prepared to step in poop deserves to ruin his shoes.
It's hugely silly, but peppy enough to be tolerable. What grates most are the patronising racial stereotypes: the dirty Mexican dogs are just waiting to be rescued by LA ladies and given a good bath.
A kid's film doesn't have to be an all time classic to be watchable - once anyway - for the whole audience. No one in Beverly Hills Chihuahua seems to care enough to bother. And if they don't care, why should I?
For most of Beverly Hills Chihuahua, all I could think about was Drew Barrymore. What might she have been up to while she recited her lines for Chloe, the spoiled yet sad-looking live-action Chihuahua that speaks in her voice.
The good news: Beverly Hills Chihuahua is not the apocalypse-signaling, cultural abomination its trailers make it out to be. The bad news: That's pretty much the best thing that can be said about it.
