Girlbands Forever Review – An Exciting Slice of Must-Watch TV | television

AIn a pop culture moment, the girl group boom at the turn of the millennium was not bathed in formal evaluation and analysis. Wisely, this fantastically entertaining three-part documentary doesn’t attempt to correct that. Instead, Girlbands Forever reminisces in a way that is equal parts flesh and foam. And yes, it’s often as nauseating as this combination sounds.

At the heart of this series — the female-focused follow-up to 2024’s Boybands Forever — is a lot of old ground. Viewers of a certain age will know the paths traced here (the arrival of the Spice Girls, the faltering rise of Atomic Kitten, the rotation of the existentially challenging Sugababes lineup, the talent show concept of Little Mix) and the prevailing themes (tabloid hell, ruthless management, relentless touring, internalized dissatisfaction) like the backs of their slightly wrinkled hands.

But through a combination of revealing details, still-juicy old gossip, offbeat archival footage, satisfyingly candid interviewees, and a bit of uplifting narration — a style that recalls James Bluemel’s more profound but similarly profound documentary Once Upon a Time — Girlbands Forever offers the angles that can turn a familiar subject into must-see television.

The first episode is the best, thanks in large part to the funny and candid contributions of All Saints’ Melanie Platt (or, as she puts it, “Mel from the ’90s”). We start with the horrific year of 1992, whose Black Wednesday misery seems to have been mitigated by a slice of great R&B girl groups from the States. Producer Ron Tom saw an opportunity for a British release – “a glimpse of London, the underground, the edge” – in teenager Platt and her friend Shaznay Lewis. Meanwhile, EMI was cultivating gospel-infused eternal competitors. The latter achieved modest success, while Lewis and Platt did not. Both were unimpressed when the bullshit-filled Wannabe stormed the charts in 1996 (Eternal’s Kéllé Bryan assumed it was a leaked demo) before their empty power cry overwhelmed the zeitgeist.

Oddly enough, the Spice Girls – immediately rewarded with the stardom that had eluded Platt and Lewis – would be the creation of All Saints, now with the addition of the Appleton sisters: the group’s smoldering, elegant, trip-hop-adjacent R&B could be marketed as an authentic, modern alternative to the cartoonish pop produced by Ginger and her bandmates, generally rootless in a press-friendly competition à la Blur v Oasis. In this torch of ‘Cool Britannia’, the tribulations of the modern British girl band would be shaped: intrusive press commentary, the one-as-a-product mentality in the music world (according to Brian, the bosses sent the band to a camp where they controlled what they ate – although the head of EMI UK at the time denies any knowledge of this) and the appalling treatment of the members once they became pregnant. Platt recalls that a manager pressured her to have an abortion. By the time Scary and Posh were also with a child, broadcaster Robert Kilroy Silk was seriously wondering whether these twenty-something women were responsible for encouraging teenage fans to become mothers.

After this first wave of “unbearable musical disruptions” – according to the slightly exaggerated voiceover – came the girl group dump. All of these clothes may have been manufactured to some degree, but the likes of Girl Thing and the short-lived Vanilla proved that you can’t accidentally roll them off the production line.

Enter Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark by Andy McCloskey, who was looking for a second act after the heyday of synthpop. He found it in a vivacious backing dancer named Kerry Katona and Atomic Kitten was born.

The early 2000s also spawned Mis-Teeq, who graced the charts with polished garage pop in the UK. Atomic Kitten’s raucous play was catnip to the raunchy gossip magazines of the era, prompting Katona to leave the band once she thought she’d found her happily ever after with Westlife’s Brian McFadden (a union she says sent labels of both bands “absolutely fucking apeshit”). Mis-Teeq, a trio of stylish black women, struggled to get much press coverage at all, then were dumped — maddeningly — by the industry after achieving massive global success with Scandal.

The final installment is where the giddy nostalgia starts to fade. In the late 2000s, the Sugababes’ lineup changes blurred the line between band and label to a depressing extent, confirming that no matter how great the music was (even Atomic Kitten had its fair share of certified bands), the girl group industrial complex was a brutal, opportunistic, soulless affair. Eventually, we arrive at the 2000s, and Little Mix, descendants of the age of the talent show and social media, have had the most success with their less catchy music.

The ending acknowledges All Saints and Sugababes’ recent reunions, while the interviewees express misguided optimism about the British girl group’s future – completely ignoring the reality of their extinction. In light of this remarkable and infuriating history of the woes of these young women, this may not be a loss we should necessarily mourn.