But the plot that Cherry Kiss Productions has unnecessarily cobbled together to unite these scenes—-a Jack Torrence type tries to make a movie, while various Kubrick characters are figments of his imagination—-stumbles each time the actors struggle to recite (and often remember) dialogue. The less talk, the better.

Except that the stripteases are rarely as funny and brilliant as, say Peter Sellers in Lolita or Dr. Strangelove; more often they’re pretty but leaden, like Barry Lyndon‘s Ryan O’Neal. And the fact that the show draws more from Eyes Wide Shut than Full Metal Jacket is, well, befuddling.

Worse, the constant imbalance of buxom, comely women showing off their bodies while the few men onstage stay entirely clothed (an exception is the wonderful, androgynous dancer Gee Gee Louise) reminds you of the already glaring woman problem in Kubrick’s films—-that they’re mostly stuck in there for decoration. Take The Shining‘s Shelley Duvall, who is arguably Kubrick’s most powerful female character, but mostly because she successfully escapes a psycho.

Another note: Malcolm MacDowell‘s “Singing in the Rain” rape from A Clockwork Orange is disturbing and unforgettable in that movie, and probably the first thing that anyone remembers about it. But to include it here, when Cherry Kiss could just as easily have done something clever with, say, the indoctrination scene (those eye traps!), misses the tone and context of that scene, and its importance in the evolution of Alex as a character. Instead, it feels like an attempt to make violence against women titillating.

Kubrilesque isn’t all cringes. Kat De Lac, as “Lutza Cuntzsch,” dances hilariously in Clockwork‘ Korova Milk Bar with a giant pretzel. There’s an all-too-brief 2001 sendup with apes swiveling sexily and then shedding their furry outfits to reveal red, white, and blue bikinis underneath. And Bunny Vicious and Private Tails as the twins from The Shining, with “R-E-D-R-U-M” on their stomachs, are sinisterly impish.

See it if: You’re obsessed with Stanley Kubrick.

Skip it if: You’re obsessed with Stanley Kubrick.

A note about burlesque etiquette, for heterosexual males in particular, unfortunately: Viddy well, oh my brothers. Your humble critic would like to offer you burlesque nymphets a few guidelines to maintaining good form in the face of increasingly naked womanhood. Seriously, DEWDS. Unless you want everyone else in the audience to tolchok you in the gulliver, please remember that you are not Ralph Cifaretto at the Bada Bing. You are not throwing money at the stage and these are not hoo-ahs. These are performers with a range of training. They are real people. And yes, they’re taking off their clothes. But they’re also acting and dancing and singing and trying to find that sweet spot wherein intellectual and sexy and funny all combine forces (the light in our lives, the fire in our loins, if you will). I wouldn’t have thought in a million years that a sophisticated D.C. audience would need any finger-wagging, but at the premiere I attended, unfortunately, a man sitting in the front row found it imperative to growl-yell “YEAAAH!” every time a woman showed some pasties or the hint of her butt. At one point, he even yelled at a woman with her back toward the audience, unhooking her top, to “Turn ’em loose!” (The “em,” I assumed, being her boobies.) In the words of Hal 9000: Dave, stop. Stop, will you? Stop, Dave. Will you stop Dave? Stop, Dave.