We saw Claire Sinclair‘s new show at Stratosphere the other night … or rather, ‘saw as much as we could withstand.’ Our attention and sitzfleisch gave out around the one-hour mark, with at least another 30 minutes stretching before us. Speaking of stretch, the corps de danse looks very well-toned and amazonian but some of their routines appear under-rehearsed. Ditto the synchronization with the band of a vocalist only identified as “Anne.” The latter was mostly inaudible and when you could hear her, you wished otherwise. (Hey producers, I’ve got a Rolodex full of names of good, Vegas-based singers you could have hired but didn’t.)
Pin Up is organized, rather arbitrarily, around a ‘calendar’ format, with each month almost always represented by a song sandwiched between two dances. Monotony sets in rapidly. As for Sinclair, she’s got a wholesome stage presence and husky voice, and she’s got a great walk, too. But that’s about where her inventory of talent ends. Pin Up is a headliner show where the headliner can’t do anything … except emcee the proceedings. If this chaste titty show doesn’t close rapidly — which I suspect it may — its creators need to find a way to treat their star attraction as something more than an ambulatory History Channel, only better-looking.
