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In the summer of 1998 “Titanic” was six months into its marathon run in theaters, revelations about President Bill Clinton’s infidelity were hurtling him toward impeachment and I, a kid living in a small English village, was subjecting my younger brothers to weekly screenings of “Spice World” on DVD . I had recently turned 8 years old and believed, quite simply, that this film was the best thing adults had ever created.

“Spice mania” was at its peak: A typical music magazine cover at that time shouted “Spice Girls: We’re the biggest pop band that ever lived!” I was all in, playing Geri in schoolyard concerts and daydreaming about clomping around in platform shoes once I became old enough to be the mistress of my own wardrobe. I loved that they were also British, that they were cheeky, that they talked about being best friends. Their music itself was almost incidental to what they represented to me .

Their first (and only) feature film was announced, shot and released in a span of eight months, coinciding with the group’s second album, “Spiceworld.” The music industry machine around the Girls was churning out content as fast as it could, and tastemakers were not wholly impressed. In his review for the British movie magazine Empire, Ian Nathan wrote, “the shock here is sheer dullness.” The film critic Roger Ebert gave it half a star, musing, “What can you say about five women whose principal distinguishing characteristic is that they have different names?”