Return to Vegas: Part III

In this section, we'll chronicle how the Travelin' Thornberries' attempt to find and attend their first bit of entertainment in Las Vegas.

La Femme, aka Crazy Horse Las Vegas

We took some time to nap, freshen up, and dress in the fancy clothing we'd purchased on our previous excursion through Sin City. Excited, we set a course through our hotel, our intent to get across the street to the MGM Grand Casino. That's where our show was scheduled at 8:00 p.m (which is 11:00 p.m, home time!). Unfortunately, our previous familiarity with the layout of the New York-New York didn't help us very much, and we still became hopelessly turned around trying to find the umbilicus that yokes the casinos together over top of the 10 lanes of traffic below. Frustrated, we at last laid in a course for the front door, figuring once we had our bearings, we could just take the long way around. Both of us held on to our excitement and went outside into the dry air of the Nevada desert.

And it was raining.

RAINING.

In Las Vegas, the seat of one of the most renowned deserts in the continental United States!

We would talk to some locals later, who would tell us this has been thus far the rainiest year in recent memory. Lucky us. We got to bear witness to this dubious "miracle," when we were already cold and in our nice clothing. Neither of us had thought to pack an umbrella. Jennifer's well-teased hair immediately and audibly went flat, and I was sure my jacket would be ruined. Both of us set as fast a pace as we could for the one-block walk from the New York-New York to the MGM Grand, climbing over the line of diverse animals that were trekking across the street in ominous-looking pairs. Once inside, we found the chamber where our show would be held, and then spent some time drying off.

Things got better after that. From the entrance to the show, an usher escorted us into a sultry red theatre, surprisingly smaller and cozier than we expected. In fact, passion-red was the dominating theme. The lighting was ruddy, the curtains deep wine colored. The ushers and waitresses likewise wore scarlet tuxedos, with the latter having appropriately short skirts. All navigated the room using unobtrusive red diodes when the main lighting dimmed. To each side of the stage were eight-foot tall nude female statues of faux marble, looking like Greek-influenced Muses or goddesses.

The usher led Jennifer and me to a front seat at the right of the stage, where a small drink table awaited us. Our spot was behind another couple who introduced themselves and told us they were from Pennsylvania. They were delighted to hear we were unofficially celebrating our fifth anniversary, telling us this was their own quarter-century mark of matrimonial bliss. When the long-legged waitress, of apparent Indian descent, approached and asked if we'd like a drink, I nonchalantly ordered a double-shot of Scotch on the rocks. Jennifer ordered water. Said waitress returned a little later with a couple of bars of gold bullion crammed into large glasses, and laid out the bill for these huge masses of precious metals. Drinking the gold was hard, and I found it almost as difficult to pack down my esophagus as the cost...okay, I'm exaggerating a bit. Suffice it to say, each shot of that Scotch cost as much as a 2-liter bottle of brandy back home, and that usually lasts us five or six weeks! Jennifer whispered, "Better enjoy that Scotch!" Hell, even the water she ordered--an eight-ounce bladder of Evian--cost enough to purchase four bottles twice that size at Kroger. Ah well, we eventually reasoned that this was a special occasion and we were there to get a show unlike anything we could get back home.

About the show.

First of all, it was imported to Las Vegas from the Crazy Horse Theatre in France, where it has been performed for more than half a century. It originally opened here in the U.S. under the name La Femme to distinguish it from another show already running with a similar name. Once that other show closed, however, they changed the name to "Crazy Horse," in honor of its French origins. And it truly is a nod to a Continental heritage. The theatre itself is an exact replica of the one in France. So concerned are the producers to maintain this authenticity, that the music performed is pre-recorded, many of the numbers in original French. The performers lip-synch. Presumably, this is so as not to massacre the language pronunciation or introduce an inauthentic American accent to it. However, the MGM Grand's entry on Wikipedia says that all thirteen dancers were part of the original Paris troupe; I don't know if that means they're French, or just trained there. In any case, the lip-synching is apparently unusual for a Las Vegas show, where most performers do their own singing; but understandable, if they want to guarantee authenticity.

The theme of the show is female beauty, taken in the abstract. Woman with a capital "W." The thirteen performers--all women--are selected for uniformity of their physical features, anatomy, height and facial bone structure. The idea is to standardize beauty, to emphasize it as a single variable, with all other extraneous variables controlled. The dancers are remote, even coldly impersonal. They do not speak, do not engage the audience, and as noted previously, they do not sing in their own voices. They are at all times, cloaked in wigs, heavy eye shadow and a plethora of projected lights on their bodies, further creating a mirage of surreal beauty. But that's pretty much all they wear.

You see, the performers are nude.

Yes, Crazy Horse celebrates the beauty of the entirety of the female form, something that cannot be captured through the distractions of fashion or the constraints of modesty and prudishness. This is an adult show, but "adult" in the sense that it appeals to sensibilities that children--or the overly young-at-heart--are unable to appreciate. Las Vegas is very good at finding some of the best, most tasteful performers in the world. Each performer in the Crazy Horse show was trained in ballet, and each has made a cut from an incalculable number of applicants for one of only thirteen spots. On stage, the ladies move like living nude sculptures from a museum, all deserving of the same reverence as any other piece of art.

Each act was introduced with a title projected in white light onto the curtains. I found most of them illegible, for one reason or another: either the curtain was too wobbly a medium, the font of the letters was difficult to decipher, or the title was in French. But it didn't matter, the acts were generally well-done just the same.

The first act, one of my favorites, involved all the beauties dressed in 18th century French military garb, with fuzzy helmets, and a strip of buttons down their otherwise bare torsos. It was a lock-step bit, where they used high-heeled combat-esque boots to make loud, synchronized percussive rhythms. They also did well-choreographed saluting. You can see someone's recording of the act and a general summary of the show performed in the Dailymotion window below. Be warned, however, that this is not "prude friendly." If you are easily embarrassed or offended by nude art, scroll on past it and continue the story:

Jennifer really enjoyed the second act, which involved two performers enacting synchronized and graceful movements within a large metal ring. Here's a safe version of it, which is "prude friendly:"

I took the time throughout the performance to memorize the order of the acts as best I could, but it would be rather futile to try to capture all their majesty here, with only words. Suffice it to say, it was an awesome show, one I'd gladly see again. Women are beautiful, and it is a sad commentary that, unlike our European kin, there are so few Americans who can look beyond the stigma to see that. [Getting off soapbox now.]

By the end, we were quite pleased with our choice of show. It made the rain and cold more than worthwhile. Unfortunately, it could not sustain us through the jetlag and the fact of a four-hour flight. We returned to our room, where we talked of the show some more, before going to bed.


NEXT TIME: The Travelin' Thornberries take the monorail to the previously unexplored part of the Strip; and by day's end, they see another form of "strip" entirely. Tune in!

Click for Part IV