This is a compelling orgy of Brazilian machismo. The only woman is show’s velvet-toned singer. Her sensual chic sharply offsets the male dancers’ razor edge. Tall and petite – with skinheads, Afros and braids – all are buff and ripped, muscles ripe to bursting: airbrushed perfection, like an underwear ad. The men’s gangsta pouting and glowering looks almost sincere, but ultimately reads like supermodel posturing. Their one short game of capoeira has intricate give and take. The men yield in moments of curious intimacy. But this choreographed interplay fast gives way to Olympian circus: heart-stopping flick flacks, a streaming of climaxes.
Variety comes from the costume changes, including soccer shirts peeled off with glee. With super press-ups, men bounce under and over each other. It’s a Chippendales revival, replete with hip grinds, but safe enough for dancing in the aisles with nanas from the audience. “We love you”, shouts the MC, inviting us to go partying later.
The men’s intense rivalry gets the audience swooning. This is a dead-cert festival hit. The venue vibe is ethnic authenticity. The show ostensibly narrates slave liberation. In truth, this is a naughty-but-nice all-male revue. In the exit foyer, the guys made an honour guard. Inches from their sweating torsos, I glanced down to check out the guys’ pants, keenly hoping to see the bulge of a big pay packet. All is well with me if the box office reaches their favella.
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