‘Whorehouse’ a clumsy revival doomed by cheapness

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Two places where cheapskates aren’t encouraged: casinos and brothels. Both do all they can to loosen up your purse strings.

Funny then, how a casino show about a brothel decided to ignore the adage “You have to spend money to make money.”

A clumsy revival of “The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas” at the Plaza undermines some strong performances with obnoxious recorded backing tracks and a sound system so bad it sabotages the actors.

Enough of it still works that you can’t say the whole thing was a terrible idea. After all, how many more impressionists and magicians do we need? And the 1978 Broadway hit still plays as racy adult fun, especially when given an extra punch of scanty costumes for the sex workers of the title – and even the male singing narrator (Roland August).

The book by Larry L. King and Peter Masterson (the songs are by Carol Hall) still comes off as well written and relevant, especially in an election year that’s reverting to 1970s-era cultural wars.

Themes of inevitability and Texas stoicism – trying not to lament the way things might have been – run through the comedy about a famous Texas brothel headed down the road to extinction in the early 1970s.

Even though no one involved really wants it closed, the Chicken Ranch becomes a casualty of the early era of TV investigative reporting, represented here as a posturing hack in a bad toupee (Quentin Walters).

The musical is little seen and not well represented by the 1982 movie. But it condenses well to 80 minutes, losing some character songs but retaining its ear for poetic profanity and the calm lack of outrage in the way politicians say one thing and do another. “Did you see me on the news last night? I denounced this place,” the Senator (Chris Rogers) proudly tells the madame (Jacqueline Holland-Wright on this night, Kellie Wright at some performances) at the brothel he has patronized for years.

But director Betty Sullivan-Cleary lets the whip-crack dialogue drop flat on the floor; too many jokes die for lack of timing. She does protect some of the poignant moments: Miss Mona serving as a den mother to her damaged employees, or the way Mona and the sheriff can’t quite forget their feelings for one another.

There are strong deliveries of both the songs that exist only as showstoppers – Audrei Kairan burning up “24 Hours of Lovin’ ” – and those that further the story: the prostitutes singing “Hard Candy Christmas” or Miss Mona’s winsome “The Bus from Amarillo.”

That is, when you can hear the singers over puffs of air over headset mics or the annoying recorded tracks. The original Broadway version didn’t have a big pit orchestra, but a small band onstage folded into the action. How much more perfect could that be for the Plaza? But the production is doomed by its own cheapness.

The Broadway original also was lauded for Tommy Tune’s inventive choreography. The physical movement is lamentable here, beyond the excuses of performing it on a tiny stage.

It’s hard not to be snooty about this title’s origins in community theater; it was staged in the suburbs by the same trio of producers in 2006. In theory, ticket-buyers shouldn’t know or care. (Besides, those lines are blurring as well. “Tournament of Kings” director Phil Shelburne puts up more professional-looking shows than this one at Spring Mountain Ranch.)

But I would say this: If this show was at a library or the outdoor stage at the ranch, we’d automatically be more forgiving of the sound, the drab little sketch of a set and the mighty Texas A&M Aggies team looking more like mathletes. Community productions just don’t have the depth of casting.

Defenders might argue that the Plaza is becoming downtown’s version of a local’s casino anyway. What’s the difference between the Insurgo productions upstairs and this one downstairs?

Glad you (might have) asked. It’s the difference between shows marketed primarily to locals – albeit a new generation of the downtown, Zappos creative-class sensibility – and ones that aim to compete with more Vegas-y fare for tourists.

“Whorehouse” doesn’t pass the test of offering something tourists can’t see back home. Sadly, it’s more the kind of show they come to Vegas to leave behind.

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