Not in faithful step

You know something’s askew when the tabla player bounds on stage and says, “How you all doing tonight?” Indeed, the Velveeta factor had already surfaced at the El Portal Theatre on Friday when Bellydance Superstars and the Desert Roses opened with “Entrance of the Stars,” a parade of hip-wiggling maidens who resembled the talent portion of a regional beauty pageant.

Clad in glitzy beaded harem outfits that could have made a drag queen blush, the dozen dancers (all Americans), slithered throughout much of the evening in silver platform sandals. So much for tradition.

Produced by pop Svengali Miles Copeland, the show aspires to “Riverdance” status, but the latter is Tony-worthy in comparison. But with its chintzy Casbah-like backdrop, shoddy lighting and mostly taped music (available for purchase in the lobby, along with instructional DVDs, coin-festooned bras and thong panties bearing the “Bellydance” logo), this lounge act is in need of navel-razing.

In other words, Copeland is pulling the veil over our eyes. Authentic belly dance commands respect and easily mesmerizes, with undulating torsos and “belly rolling” (the pushing in and out of the diaphragm to create a series of gyrations), just one aspect of the dance that also features liquid arms and improvisational footwork.

Here the form is buried amid automaton smiles and even an occasional back flip. Notable exceptions: Petite Jamilla, a hair-tossing trance spinner caused swooning fabric-swirling; ditto for Amar Gamal’s languid backbends. Rachel Brice, who, with Jillina, choreographed the 16 numbers, offered a glimpse of solo artistry with a sensuous display of isolated stomach muscles, her talented upper torso rippling in counterpoint to filigreed fingers.

A pity it was set to blasting techno music. Other misguided efforts included a gourd-shaking hula, a piece called “Bombay Bellywood,” with compulsory head-bobbing, and a procession of Rockette-like cane-carriers. (Where is Bob Fosse when you need him?)

Missing choreographically were intricate line formations and extended virtuosic vampings, even when accompanied by tabla player Issam Houshan, whose simplistic rhythms seemed divisible by two. With coined costumes jingling, Copeland may be taking this act to the bank, but purists would prefer it went, well, belly up.