This show gives you what you came for: six nicely formed actresses in sexy outfits, four of whom display their nicely formed bosoms with ecdysiastic pride. Just so we’re reminded that this is downtown off-off-Broadway and not 42nd Street Show World, author/composer Walter Marks throws in enough female bonding and poppish music to absolve us of our guilt as willing voyeurs. Of course, that’s where the trouble starts.
For there are worse things than observing a night in the life of a strip club, with behind-the-scenes banter punctuated by the choreographed disrobings of a half-dozen femmes deluxe (Donna Drake, Marine Jahan, Jodi Stevens, Beth Glover, and den mother Susan Flynn). But composer-librettist Marks doesn’t stop there; for him, dialogue isn’t entertaining unless it’s filled with stupid jokes and forced pathos. Which brings us to the -- you’ll forgive the expression -- plot. This is no ordinary night for the dancers at Tiffany Silver’s Body Shop. A famous director’s in town to scout locations for the new Tom Cruise movie, and he needs an actress for a scene in a strip club ...could it be one of our girls? Soon the ladies are alternately supporting and sabotaging each other, with porno star and guest dancer Samantha (Glover) going so far as to tamper with her co-stars’ belongings.
Leave for a moment the unlikelihood of a Hollywood director taking the time out to visit the club by himself in the afternoon and then return the same evening to catch the show. Instead, let’s talk principles. Tiffany, the club owner and proud keeper of the tease-without-sleaze tradition, is posited as the role model for these dancers, so what are we to make of the scene when Leanne (Drake) seriously hurts her leg? Does Tiffany call an ambulance? Does she at least pack the leg in ice and call a cab to take Leanne home? No, she hands Leanne a fistful of Percodan and says, “Go on out there! This is your big chance!” Her big chance at what? Irreparable ligament damage?
As choreographed by Tony Stevens, the strip numbers have grace and even some ingenuity (though Doris’s nightmare about bug-eyed men raping her while she dances is, without question, the most ludicrous dance sequence since the Legs Diamond hula). If we don’t listen too hard to the lyrics, the songs -- two of which are pre-recorded and played while the singers dance -- actually get the job done. Franne Lee’s costumes keep our eyes occupied even as our brains shift to automatic pilot. Tim Goodmanson’s set design is an admirable work of understated gaudiness -- this isn’t Pennyfeathers, but it ain’t a whorehouse, either. The cast prove acceptable in all ways except being able to turn this sow’s jockstrap into a silk tassel.
