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Red windmills of your mind

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Man in blue pants and long-sleeved black shirt, wearing sunglasses, crouches in outdoor parking lot

Full disclosure: I don’t think I’m the target audience for Moulin Rouge, inasmuch as the 2001 film on which it’s based mostly left me feeling like I had a case of the bends, what with all the swooping and zooming camera action. But if you’re a fan, then you’ll probably want to see the current touring Broadway in Chicago production, which is filled with enough glitz, glitter, pop, and histrionic passion to satisfy dedicated Baz Luhrmann fans.

Moulin Rouge
Through 5/14: Tue-Fri 7:30 PM, Sat 2 and 8 PM, Sun 2 and 7:30 PM; also Wed-Thu 5/11-5/12, 2 PM; James M. Nederlander Theatre, 24 W. Randolph, 800-775-2000, broadwayinchicago.com, $55-$149.

The book is by onetime Chicago playwright John Logan, but that hardly matters, since the story was already derivative by the time Luhrmann got his mitts on it. Poor Ohio songwriter Christian (Conor Ryan) falls in love with Parisian actress/courtesan Satine (Courtney Reed) in the City of Lights. But a rich horny Duke (David Harris) tries to control her with threats to close down the Moulin Rouge, because threatening to blow it all up if they don’t get their way is what rich guys do sometimes. But of course art and love conquer all. Except consumption. (Ask Mimi from La bohème, the ur-Satine.)

It’s a jukebox musical where the jukebox mostly plays snippets of popular songs, rather than whole numbers. The aural menu ranges from Katy Perry’s “Firework” to Eurythmics’s “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” to Outkast’s “Hey Ya!” and probably any song you heard regularly during the aughts. Alex Timbers’s direction isn’t going for subtle, and Sonya Tayeh’s choreography knows subtle ain’t what sells in Montmartre. The set and costumes by Derek McLane and Catherine Zuber, respectively, are decadent eye candy, like a Valentine’s Ball set in a belle epoque bordello. And though the runny-brie cheesiness of the story made me roll my eyes, the soaring feverish vocals of Reed and Ryan are what you’re paying for, and they deliver. André Ward’s deliciously sardonic Toulouse-Lautrec provides a much-needed dose of astringent vinegar.

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