NEW YORK — New York City is about to be flooded with abs. Real ones. Channing Tatum is bringing Magic Mike Live to the old Copacabana, which is fitting, because nothing preserves a historic New York landmark like turning it into a steamy terrarium of shirtless men named Blade and Diesel. They’re “turning up the gas,” promising more heat, more thrust, more upside-down men suspended like erotic bats to the eternal echo of Pony. The show seats 425 people, meaning 425 women having the time of their lives and a handful of men who were “just there with friends” now studying the exit sign like it owes them money. This is billed as an elevated, sex-positive reinvention of the male revue. Cirque du Soleil with abs. Audience participation “only if wanted,” which is comforting language when thighs start flying.
There’s a female MC to keep order, which feels necessary when you release 13 ripped lunatics into a room with alcohol and consent-forward playlists. Channing Tatum says he made this to bury the old gross version of male entertainment, which is noble, if a little like inventing cigarettes and reopening as a feminist hookah lounge. But here’s the trap: you will notice things. You will think thoughts. You will have opinions about calves, something you’ve never once cared about in your life. And somewhere between a man being lifted by his legs like a sacred offering and Ginuwine hitting the chorus again, you will feel the sudden need to clarify something, to no one in particular, for the record, for God. I’m not gay.
For more information, go to magicmikelive.com/new-york/
