Unless you were off discovering the cure for cancer or googling yourself and masturbating furiously for the last five years, you may remember a little film called Moulin Rouge.
I know you will be shocked when I tell you that there is an ACTUAL Moulin Rouge, windmill and all, here in Paris! Yes, it’s true, here it is, at the foot of Montmartre, poised to dazzle.
Now, there are a thousand things I could tell you about Paris, but this, by far, is the most amusing to me and therefore, this, by far, is what I mustneeds tell.
I bet you would expect that the curtain would go up and there would be Nicole Kidman on a swing with that guy from Trainspotting staring longingly from the wings…not so!
No, no, in this case the curtain went up and what was on stage can only be described as a virtual smorgasborg of silver suited dancers singing “DANCE DANCE PARTY DANCE” whilst pivoting from side to side, making a disco motion not unlike that gopher from Caddyshack.
The men, there were ten of them, seemed happy to be there. And the women, there were thirty of them, seemed happy to be pretty. Which, by the way, they were. Extremely so. In fact, there was not one of them who you couldn’t have plucked lovingly out of the bunch with a giant claw, changed into something less ridiculous and thrown on to the cover of Vogue without anyone batting an eye. That’s just how hot they were. Deathly skinny. Bone thin. Real breasts. Nothing like you see in America. They looked like they’d been raised behind a barn somewhere on only cabbage and maybe a turnip on special occasions. These were no Las Vegas showgirls. No, no, there were no braggy muscles, no nose-jobs, no implants, nothing vaguely tranny-seeming. These girls were svelte, delicate and couldn’t dance to save their lives.
That’s right. If you’re wondering whether their hot moves were equal to their beauty, the answer is no. Definitely not. Indeed, there was more than one time when we nearly witnessed two of them collide and go careening into the dinner tables. No, no, folks…this was no Vegas.
If you’ve ever been to one of these flashy flashes of flashiness, you will be familiar with the general theme changing of each number. For example: Oh, now we’re in the Far East. Ok, now we’re in Rome. Ok, now we’re in Africa and one of the dancers is dressed as a tiger…Capture her! Capture her! (But, you see, she cannot be captured…for she is Fwench tiger…and cannot be tamed…)
My particular favorite ditty was a bit where the whole crew came out dressed like they were from the future…if the future were 1987. It’s a wonderful bit when they sing, and by sing I mean lip-sinc, that in the future “there will be vibration.” I’m not sure what they meant by that, exactly, but they definitely gave that part to the girls.
A particularly thrilling number was when a giant see-through tank arose from the abyss, filled with real-live, enormous, slithering anacondas. Just before I could scream out a warning, one of the poor girls threw herself in the tank and started swimming around with the anacondas, grabbing them and wrapping them around her. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t think this was such a good idea, but was fairly sure she wouldn’t hear me over the din of the silverware and glasses. Just as I was about to hurl myself into the tank and save her life, she jumped out to a round of excited applause. I really would have saved her, honestly, had it not been for the two tiers of tables between us, the two glasses of wine inside me and my deathly fear of snakes. Other than that, though, I was just about in there.
(Are you mad at me for not saving her? Maybe you think I am coward…)
There were a variety of acts in between the spectacular spectacle. One was a guy who could juggle five golf balls from his mouth. It was a strange sight, all of this gargling and oral projecting…and made one wonder a) How did it all begin? and b) What would it be like to be his girlfriend?
The grand finale involved the most elaborate fuzzy, glittery, pink costumes I have ever seen. There was a grand staircase and the ten happy men each got to descend the staircase in full pink regalia, somewhere between Elvis and Liberace, with a giant silver “collar” around the back. This they did whilst singing the “DANCE DANCE PARTY DANCE” reprise and I found myself thinking…if I had a gay son, I would tell him to move to Paris, join the Moulin Rouge and get in this number because…ladies and gentlemen…it doesn’t get any gayer than this. The only thing gayer than wearing that pink outfit, parading down that staircase and singing “DANCE DANCE PARTY DANCE” would be to actually turn into a piece of light and fly away.
The end of the thing was a showstopping showstopper, followed by a chattle cluster to get out the door, wherein all races, creeds and nationalities were well represented. My favorite representative was a Japanese businessman throwing up in his plate. His friend kept trying to get him out of there, but he kept assuring him he was just fine and then proceeding to throw up in the plate once again, all of this with his head about three inches above this poor little plate. It was the kind of thing you couldn’t take your eyes off of. Cheers, Japan! Well-played!
I’m fairly sure that the Moulin Rouge teaches us nothing about the French, other than that they sure can find some hot chics to dance over here. I’m, also, fairly sure that if I asked my Fwench fwend what he thought of the Moulin Rouge, he would make a Fwench face of hatred, take a drag off his Marlboro and order something with country ham.
And that, mes amis, would be more French than the lot of it.