Energy difference obvious between ‘Crazy Horse,”Fantasy’

The Crazy Horse in Paris is name-checked in the Crue’s classic ode to stripperhood. The French institution is also the subject of a new movie by pioneering documentarian Frederick Wiseman, simply called “Crazy Horse,” which may show up in local cinemas next month.

The MGM Grand has hosted its own spinoff company of the Crazy Horse since 2001, and the film comes upon rumblings that the Vegas version is soon to be somehow transformed, possibly shutting down for a stretch this summer, in step with other major renovations on the Strip end of the hotel.

Couldn’t tell you if the Paris club is any fun beyond the show itself. But I do see the logic in rumors that the Vegas Horse will become more environmental, more of an actual place you would want to spend time in. As of now it’s a cute, cozy room with authentic French trimmings, but deathly calm with no energy at all until the show begins.

What’s onstage has remained admirably true to the original French vision, beyond some name-switching — it came to town as “La Femme” because topless clubs off-Strip had swiped the real name — and occasional guest stars such as Carmen Electra and Dita Von Teese.

Dancers are all naturally endowed and matched as closely as possible for height and symmetry. You will hear no Motley Crue, but the Prohibition-era jazz favored by the French and some occasional lip-syncing to Eartha Kitt.

The stage is shaped like a wide-screen movie, adding height to the women and creating cinematic illusions when they are painted with kaleidoscopic patterns of light. (Surely the credit sequences of James Bond movies were inspired by this revue that debuted in 1959.)

There’s a hypnotic power to a horizontal mirror splitting the women into reflected halves, or seeing only a pair of legs in stockings and red pumps, or legs crossed in the air over the pelvis to which they are attached.

And there’s a sly wit to it all, which almost makes up for what a passive experience it is. It all takes place behind the curtain line, the women usually wigged and deliberately anonymous. (In a New York Times interview, Wiseman said he found them more erotic in rehearsal, where they were “more individual.”) No one sings live or talks to you, not even the two specialty acts.

That is not the case at “Fantasy,” the American version of the topless dream playing at corporate sister property Luxor. This show has been revamped — and reviewed — far more often, but company was in town and a comparative baseline was demanded.

The energy difference is palpable. At “Fantasy,” the women literally do come offstage and grab you, or at least one poor birthday lad per performance who is transformed into an Elvis impersonator. Yes, shtick is the price you pay to see sexy lady cop Tracey Gittins or the Cuban drum gyrations of Yesi.

In time, “Fantasy” has drifted toward its heart’s desire to be more of a pop variety show than a steamy topless revue. The singing hostess, Lorena Peril, now owns the show. She’s a fireball whose midriff holds its own alongside the eight stunning, physically varied dancers.

But more and more stage time seems to go to male comedian Sean E. Cooper. The many women in the audience might like that just fine, but the male majority would probably vote for five minutes less of him, enough for another whole number from the ladies. He wouldn’t even have to actually cut his act, just compress the same number of jokes into less time and padding.

And what’s this fascination both shows have with spoofing Michael Jackson? It’s the one thing they have in common: picking on a sad, dead pop star who wouldn’t have been caught at either show. Both of them already do enough to affirm a regular guy’s masculinity, thank you.

Contact reporter Mike Weatherford at mweatherford@ reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0288.