Live From the Moulin Rouge, It's Saturday Night!

Or, We Need to Talk About France

My wife and I just returned from Paris. My first trip, her second. Though she was fourteen when she first went, so that doesn’t count. Long/short? The city is all you’ve heard and more. Cafe culture, the food, people-watching, the history, Parisians’ impeccable taste, their style, the vibe, the architecture. There are few places I’d want to live in other than New York; Paris tops that list. My only hesitation came about thirty seconds into the Féerie Revue at the Moulin Rouge.

Cause that is two hours of pure batshit crazy.

The feathers!

Like Vincent Vega said in Pulp Fiction, the differences between America and Europe reveal themselves in small ways; the Royale with Cheese, for instance. From a cultural perspective, there’s French New Wave cinema, the movement headed by the likes of Goddard, Truffaut, Rivette, Bazin, and more. Starting in the 1950s, young French filmmakers who had no money shot run-and-gun movies focused on existentialist themes. Think long takes, naturalistic lighting, and a revolutionary’s zealotry against narrative and plot. Even though French New Wave has influenced some of my favorite directors, the style’s never clicked for me. I get what Godard’s doing in Breathless—I think—but there are about ten thousand movies I’d rather sit through.

But Godard is revered. So’s the New Wave movement. The French also have tremendous taste in novels, with a particular love of American noir. They also really dig David Lynch. So, they must know what’s up, right?

Eh.

On Saturday night, my wife and I stepped into the Moulin Rouge, a cabaret in the 18th arrondissement (I am SO French) made famous—or at least relevant to modern culture—by Baz Luhrman’s 2001 musical of the same name. I’m not sure what I expected—there are few images or video online; management will behead you for taking photos—but what I got was about as close to an LSD trip as I’ll ever have.

(A note: every performer worked their asses off. My reaction is not a judgement of their effort. But it’s all so flippin’ weird!)

I think the show has a story. It definitely has scenes, I know that, focused mostly on topless women dancing…well…let’s say moving rhythmically, and singing. The music and staging feels straight 1980s Las Vegas; if this is what the French think Americans are into, our cultural reputation’s in the crapper. There might’ve been a plot. I can’t say for sure because my French is limited to bonjour, mercí, and si vous plais. But even the French-speakers in our vicinity seemed confused and bewildered.

The focus is on three female singers—topless, natch—and one man who vaguely resembled Hugh Jackman—and who is never topless. The singers draw us through acts set in various times and places. I think. There’s one set in what might’ve been India, another in the Far East; Vietnam comes to mind. One of the singers straddles a caged tunnel—topless—as other singers dressed as lions—also topless—prowl the stage. The other two singers might have—I think?—portrayed conjoined twins. They were not topless. But the creators do not care about your cultural sensitivity.

At one point a sign reading “1945” lights a jukebox, and we’re dragged into post-war Paris. The music from this point on resembles AI-imitations of 40’s swing, 1970’s disco, and 1980’s new wave. The tunes feel familiar, but just slightly off, you know? This, combined with the costume designer’s addiction to feathers—there are so many feathers—makes one think their drink has been spiked. There is the mandatory can-canning, soundtracked to the primary dancer’s ear-splitting AIEEEEEEs!

And I haven’t mentioned the circus acts. Which were totally unexpected.

Two roller skaters spun on a circular platform, the man whipping the woman into more and more dangerous lifts and holds. It’s legit tense stuff; one slip could fling a wheeled, bedazzled woman into the tenth row. After them, a mohawked knife thrower hurled chrome blades at his very bendy assistant. A crossbow and iPhone came into play here; I won’t spoil how. Lastly, and perhaps most confoundingly, a quadruple-jointed acrobat contorted herself to—and I shit you not—Adele’s Skyfall, the theme song to Daniel Craig’s best 007 movie. Oh, and there’s a bit featuring a synchronized swimmer in a clear glass pool. Though, if she’s singular, can she truly synchronize? These are deep philosophical questions, people! There are also clowns. But clowns are always weird and French ones never funny, so we’ll just move on.

The finale starts with Almost Hugh Jackman in a pink, mirrored bodysuit and our still-topless singers now wearing butterfly wings studded with Christmas lights. The opening song was reprised. The stage—which is much larger than I expected—became filled with bouncing, topless women and oiled men. More, ahem, dancing ensues. You’d think all the boobage tips a persistent sensuality. But it doesn’t; the show feels strangely asexual.

The music cuts out, the lights come on, and guests are thrown back into the reality outside the Moulin Rouge. The only harsher, more jarring expulsion I can think of is birth.

And that cab ride home’s much, much cheaper.