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| - If you are already a fan of La Quebecoise, you'll adore this show. But if you have half a brain and even a modicum of good taste, you will find this show a fawning 90-minute salad tossing of Celine's well-manicured spot-lit butthole. I kept checking the seat-back pocket for a barf bag, but alas, all I found was a used Kleenex and instructions on how to flee the theatre in the event of massive ego implosion!
Speaking of ego, the onslaught begins the very moment one steps over the threshhold into the lobby, which is home to one of the most astonishingly hubristic creations on the face of the Earth: a life-sized wax mannequin in the likeness of Ms. Dion, with which you can have your photo taken.
!!!!!!!!
This photo comes at a steep price, of course. No personal photos are allowed with La Mannequin, ostensibly because the proceeds go to some half-baked charity to fund silk tampons and golden buttplugs for African orphans. But in reality, despite her humble hug-the-world shtick, CelineDionInc. is as money-grubbing as the next manufactured susperstar -- if not more! You think all the Botox, colonics and flaxen extensions are free??
Unlike her previous show, A New Day, which featured sad clowns and assorted Frenchery to engage non-fans who were dragged along by their wives and girlfriends, THIS show itself is 100% Celine -- all Celine, all the time. So if you're not a fan, better pop a tab of acid before going in, or you'll be bored out of your gourd. Because all this show consists of is Celine in a bunch of different beautiful outfits, singing a bunch of different songs. Admittedly, her voice is amazingly powerful. But so is a boxing kangaroo. YAWN!
For me, the most puzzling aspect of the Celine Enigma has always been the spiritual bankruptcy of her lyrics -- shallow and utterly devoid of real pathos. But ASTONISHINGLY, the endless parade of gimps and rejects who worship Celine somehow take this soulless, meaningless pap to heart. "Celine understands ME!" No, she doesn't. She doesn't write her own fuckin' lyrics, she just parrots the hypercommercial gibberish her brandmasters puts in front of her.
This is PAINFULLY apparent during one particular segment of the show, when she sings Janis Ian's "At Seventeen" -- an anthem for awkward ugly ducklings everywhere. I ask you, what the fuck does Madame Superstar, famous, wealthy and adored since the age of 11, know about teen angst? If the gimps who constitute her fanbase had half a fucking brain, they'd see thru this blatant pandering in a hot second. Instead, they're wadding snotty Kleenex in those seatback pockets and mortgaging their motorized scooters to buy t-shirts and crystal shoe-horns in the gift shop. The HUMANITY!!!
"Celine" is like paying $250 to watch the figure on top of a wedding cake spew a fountain of sentimental claptrap for 90 minutes. If that's your bag, I truly pity you.
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