Entertainment

Concert-ed effort not to flee

One of the many self-actualized real-life Gleeks featured in “Glee: The 3-D Concert Movie” tells the audience, “Be proud of yourself. Don’t be afraid. Stand up for what you believe in.” OK. I stand for hating “Glee.”

This filmed record of the concert tour featuring stars of the excruciating TV show equals 90 minutes of thundering cuteness that made me feel like the guy in “127 Hours.” Midway through, I looked at my watch and couldn’t believe it was still August. When the screen explodes with slushy soft drinks over the end credits, it’s the least sticky-sweet aspect of the entire experience.

Fine for fans? Sure. This stuff is crack for fans. Crack is really bad!

Most of the cast members are here (but where’s the guy who plays the teacher?), doing group dance routines that have been used in every pop video since the 1980s and belting out Vegas-y covers of ’80s crap (“Don’t Stop Believin’ “), soul-free soul (“River Deep, Mountain High”) and would-be anthems of the oppressed, like “Born This Way.” Really? You were born annoying?

I don’t dispute that these young people can produce smiles visible from space or sing out loudly enough to crack cement; I ask merely that they refrain from doing so in my vicinity.

Among the highlights: Former movie star and country songbird Gwyneth Paltrow turns up to do “Forget You” as Gleeks in the audience reminisce about being fetuses the last time she had a hit in theaters. A guy who has spent the show in a wheelchair is moved to walk again by the inspirational power of “Safety Dance.” The actress playing Brittany, noting the 3-D element, says of the audience, “I hope they have an overwhelming sensation about my boobs.” Small chance of that; the audience is delirious with estrogen. Also, there are lots of females present.

The “Glee” bubblegum posse even dares to (literally) trot out a cover of “Empire State of Mind” as mock graffiti lights up the digital video screen in the background. But speaking as a taxpaying resident of the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, we need these dorks to cheer for us the way we need Jay-Z to teach grammar.

The smiley men of “Glee” — conceivably the only group of young Americans who could be beaten up by the Jonas Brothers (and to witness that, I would gladly buy a ticket, maybe even supply weapons) — flit about in matching blazers. One of them appears to be wearing a cardboard white bow tie with a flowered shirt while reworking “I Want To Hold Your Hand” as a dreamy torch song. It’s all sheer Ivy League Whiffenpoofery of the kind that made me wince and cover my ears for four years, and is an excellent argument for a Texas A&M education.

But yes, it must be admitted that the movie makes the most of the irresistible charms of the winsome starlet Lea Michele as Rachel, she of the plus-sized nose and redwood-felling soprano. A middle-aged fan interviewed outside the concert arena says she adores Michele because “She’s very Barbra Streisand-esque.” You mean — brunette?

Bouncing along Tiggerishly in a polka-dot skirt or sitting on a stool in a sailor shirt crooning “Happy Days Are Here Again,” she radiates so much New Jersey niceness that my advanced loathing systems were momentarily disabled. She sings “Firework” — she is a firework — with so much brutal charm that I’m secretly planning an excursion to Hot Topic to hear the song again.

The concert is broken up with profiles of fans such as a dwarf cheerleader (who becomes prom queen and is seen dancing with her normal-sized date while he’s on his knees) and a gay teen (who was outed against his will in eighth grade but is otherwise happy). Each of them shares with us personal stories — their adventures in achieving high self-esteem against surmountable odds. “We’re all different” is the message. Yes, and in exactly the same way, no? It’s hard to picture anyone in “Glee” going fishing or fixing your transmission.