Hahahahaha! Woo-hoo-hooooo! Go! Go! Go! Oh my Gaaaawd, that is absolutely hi-LAR-ious! YEEEEAAAAH!!!
Pardon my impertinence, but would you kindly SHUT THE HELL UP?
No, I’ve never had the stones to say that to a production’s publicist or various show personnel at a performance, their attempts to juice up audience energy—and media enthusiasm—sometimes revealing them as better actors than those onstage.
Yes, this is an inside-the-media-bubble gripe. Yes, rather than being paid to see Strip shows, I could be making widgets (not the phone-app icons). Yes, I’m a spoiled brat who wouldn’t know a great gig if it bit him in his overprivileged ass. Even so … SHADDUP YOU FACE!
Everyone’s been bugged by overly enthused fans, but at least that rah-rah-ing is presumably genuine. Yet if you score a ticket to a Vegas show on its official opening night—often doubling as “media night” with all us ego-inflated scribes present—then take the orgasmic audience response with a mountain of salt.
Recently, at the unveiling of The D* Word—A Musical (* Ditched, Dumped, Divorced and Dating) at LVH, a show partisan next to me urged customers at a nearby table to tuck in their legs as she knew actresses would descend from the stage to dash through the row, then cackled wildly at every clichéd punch line like a hyena on laughing gas with a feather up her butt.
Over at the Flamingo for a 30th anniversary celebration of Legends in Concert, a gaggle of female cheerleaders near me screamed and swooned over the ersatz superstars with such breathless ardor that paramedics should have been standing by with oxygen canisters. Afterward, one attempted to persuade me it was the greatest evening of theater since Sophocles awaited opening-night reviews at Sardi’s. Debuts of Rock of Ages, Million Dollar Quartet and Priscilla Queen of the Desert were so streaked with roars of rapture from local promoter types that I suspected they were recording audio loops for porn videos.
Perhaps not. Porn sounds are subtler.
Most publicists/promoters are dignified and professional, and suffering the few yahoos goes with my job, for which many would kill. No doubt their braying subconsciously suggests to some theatergoers that what they just saw was better than they thought, and that their post-show raves should be passed along to the guy one slot machine over.
Fortunately, I cannot be swayed by calculated fake-fan frenzy. Rest assured of the integrity of this column’s reviews. However, after decades as a critic, my cynicism goes deeper than Coco Austin’s cleavage, so take that with a mountain of salt.
STRIP POSTSCRIPT: Speaking of which … Vegas is suffering partial mammary loss. One of the Strip’s breast shows, Planet Hollywood’s Peepshow, emptied its tankers of silicone and vamoosed on September 1. Rumors persist, however, that it will resurface elsewhere.
Not to cheer its departure—it improved via star Coco’s bosomy charms, personally and anatomically. Yet we must congratulate her costumes, which strained to contain her basketball-size orbs and roller-coaster curves. Had her costumes been people, they’d be in traction.
Got an entertainment tip? Email Steve.Bornfeld@VegasSeven.com.