With its trailer alone, Burlesque has already gotten tons of mileage out of its obvious camp value: You don't put Cher in a movie these days -- in a glitter mini-tuxedo, no less -- if you're angling for the National Board of Review's Dull, Worthy Snoozer of the Year prize.
But what makes Burlesque truly delectable -- for the first half, at least, before its going-nowhere storyline really heads south -- is its less obvious camp value. The way, for example, the little farmgirl with big dreams played by Christina Aguilera steps into a tiny, seedy Los Angeles club and witnesses a floor show that's half Weimar Berlin, half Solid Gold Dancers; the way a bitchy entertainer named Nikki (played by a cool-struttin' Kristen Bell) wears the kind of ringletty, teased 'do that hasn't been seen since the days of Dark Shadows; the case the movie makes, ardently but wordlessly, for the unassailable truth that circle shapes placed over nipples are so much sexier than triangular ones. (And why is that, exactly?) Burlesque was clearly made by people who have been deeply influenced by old Frederick's of Hollywood catalogs, so-bad-it's-good '70s TV and Joey Heatherton mattress commercials. At last, a picture made by people whose priorities -- if nothing else -- are straight.
Director Steve Antin, in his feature debut, signals his intentions loud and clear in the first 10 minutes. Aguilera's Ali, fed up with being treated badly at her truckstop-waitressing job, plunks one ratty platform shoe on the hard back of her suitcase -- it hits with a decisive thud. She's gonna strap on those platforms and wobble -- picking her way across a gravel-lined trailer park, that hard-backed suitcase in hand -- right out of town and straight into Hollywood. OK, Ali is enough of a realist to know she can't walk to L.A. So she takes the bus: Her sleepy eyes flutter open just as the Hollywood sign comes into view.
Ali will be all right. We know she can sing, because when she opens her mouth, melisma comes out -- the girl can't help it. And if you can walk on gravel in platform shoes, it's a good bet you can bump and grind on a stage the size of a cocktail table. Which is why, when Ali arrives at that dank little club and begs its owner, Tess (played by Cher), for a shot at stardom, you can bet she'll eventually blow the roof off the joint. But not before some tears, and a few bucketfuls of tinsel confetti, are shed.
The first hour or so of Burlesque is good enough to eat with a spoon. It's completely honest about its frothy, heavily sequined ambitions: Unlike Darren Aronofky's upcoming Black Swan, Burlesque carries its high-camp flag proudly, never for a minute pretending it's really a serious, dark psychological study. Antin -- who also wrote the script -- isn't looking for cred. All he wants is dazzle, and he presents one shiny bauble after another for our delectation: There's Cher, warbling through two knock-'em-dead musical numbers and looking like the kind of fantasy-queen painting you might find airbrushed on the side of a van; and Aguilera prancing and strutting in a series of outlandish wigs and costumes -- an ice-blond flappers' bob; a tutu made of strawberry-cream ostrich feathers -- whose cumulative sparkle is probably enough to keep the nation of Austria solvent for the next 10 years. (The first name that comes up in the movie's "Special Thanks" credits is "Swarovski.")
This is a parade I truly hate to rain on, even with little tinsel raindrops. The problem is that Antin tries to pack too much story into what is essentially a flimsy gilt go-go cage. There are lots of characters milling around here -- Alan Cumming as an eyeliner'ed em-cee; Peter Gallagher as Tess's broke, beleaguered ex; Stanley Tucci as Tess's right-hand guy, always there to fix a broken zipper or wipe away a mascara-blackened tear -- and not enough for any of them to do. The two guys who vie for Ali's affections -- rich bad boy Eric Dane and nice poor boy Cam Gigandet -- are interchangeable pieces of beefcake, though I've seen more personality on an actual side of beef. There's some mild catfighting and a few amusing little hissy-fits, but there's not enough at stake in this story to make any of them matter. For such a big, shiny piece of filmmaking, Burlesque is far too even-toned emotionally; there are no shrill highs or guttural lows.
There's also too much unfortunate, wobbly handheld camerawork (the DP is Bojan Bazelli, who does, to his credit, give the movie a nice, spangly glow), and the musical numbers have been sliced-and-diced too aggressively in the editing room. (Why is it so hard to just let us watch performers dance?)
But even if Burlesque isn't the sly masterpiece that Paul Verhoeven's Showgirls is, it's at least deeply in touch with its own falsies.
The musical numbers aren't what purists would call burlesque -- they're more antic than they are sultry. But it's still fun to watch Aguilera, decked out in a satin corset and sparkly heels, shake her little powder-puff tail through a number like "But I'm a Good Girl." She's a likable presence, and her suitably outsize turn reminds me why her duet with Mick Jagger -- performed in a pair of skyscraper black platform heels -- is pretty much the only thing I remember from Martin Scorsese's otherwise perfunctory Rolling Stones documentary Shine a Light. And as an actress, she knows just what to do with Antin's intentionally ring-a-ding dialogue. "You wrote that? It's really good!" she exclaims earnestly as her lover boy tootles a dumb little tune on his Casio.
But what about Cher? The Cher I love most dearly is the big-schnozz, snaggle-toothed one, circa "The Beat Goes On," though she has proved herself a marvelous actress -- in pictures like Silkwood, Mask and Moonstruck, to name just a few -- through her many transformations. And regardless, her speaking voice (not to mention the one she sings with) remains the same, unchanged and unfussed-over. It's the voice of a woman who always sounds as if she's just about to laugh, even if her heart is breaking. That's the kind of woman you want as the patron sinner-saint of a movie like Burlesque, a love letter written in rhinestones, feathers and glitter glue.