Flash and Spectacle Aplenty From Flatley

Evidently, you either “get” Michael Flatley and his world of good-versus-evil Irish hybrid spectacle dancing or you don’t. Here’s what happens when you do: He looks like he’s coming right at you, just you--and that he likes you--when he strides to the edge of the stage and drops to his knees, dressed in glitter-studded, late-Elvis finery (if Elvis had succumbed to a bare midriff and very high silver heels on his boots).

Flatley grabs the girls, snarls at the villains, plays the flute and tosses off dexterous footwork until an impressive smoke effect curls around his feet. He combines the dash of Zorro, the thrill of military maneuvers and the flamboyance of a dancin’ man.

In his current touring show, “Feet of Flames,” at the Staples Center on Friday night, Flatley made his trademark entrance, leaping onstage in a booming flash, sailing toward his first triumphant pose. He also made a few nifty fireworks-accompanied exits by sinking into a trap door. In between, his “Lord of the Dance” formula was intact, again abandoning many elements of the more eclectic Riverdance (Flatley’s first home), a show that has a heartening communal feeling and brightens the choreographic landscape with guest flamenco and tap performers.

Flatley’s mood is menacing medievalism, with lots of over-processed electronic music and a set made of steely scaffolding arches, platforms where musicians can barely be seen, and a giant pewter-colored castle door. To rhythms that thump inside your chest cavity, a group of male or female dancers (rarely interacting) alternated their dances with soloists, two bobbing and weaving violinists (Cora Smith and Maraid Wesbit) and one sweet-voiced singer (Anne Buckley) whose lyrics were obscured by amplification. There were forces of darkness--men in black T-shirts, masks and breastplate armor; on the side of light were fairies in gossamer capes, a flittery jester (Helen Egan) and Flatley himself doing battle and coming to the rescue. “Battle” in this case meant threatening gestures, benign circling and fancy footwork in place. The dynamics of step dancing make powerful footwork phrases almost the only strong statement in an all-blaring show like this, so that warlike male dances easily grab attention. The women get to balance on their toes in hard and soft shoes but don’t really have the skills to animate upper bodies when they’re asked to float or be seductive. Both chorus and soloist women had their mini-dresses ripped off at key moments, revealing bikini bottoms, bra tops and the audience’s fondness for hooting.

Brunet Kelly Haney played the bad girl, her costume and gestural details skimmed badly from belly dance (Flatley is the choreographer for the show). In the innocent (blond) role, Bernadette Flynnwas also a kind of siren. Irish spectacle dancing thrives on the image of women thrusting their shoulders at the audience, tossing long curls and shooting glances that are smoky and chipper at the same time. Flatley himself seemed to be using fewer flamenco-type movements and airborne steps. By the end, close-ups of his face, projected on video screens that flanked the stage, revealed a clammy exhausted whiteness. This has been announced as his last world tour.

Only the final encore of “Feet of Flames” called up the glory days of Flatley’s original idea--silver-clad Irish step dancers, lined up on three tiered platforms, marshaling their percussive forces in unison or using sharp canon movements. When rhythms suddenly escalated and footwork sped up, they had the same socko appeal as the Rockettes at their leg-kicking best. It’s a thrill, but a brief one.