COLUMN: Michael Paskevich

Skater Mikhail Panin lifts his partner during the opening scene of "Splash" at the Riviera.




MICHAEL PASKEVICH

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     In regards to a revamped "Splash," the novelty-act-drenched production show that's been anchored at the Riviera since 1985, the show's recent switch from aquacade to an ice-skating-themed affair can be summed up in four words: Hell hath frozen over.
      Or at least it is emanating a deadening chill as the frozen-in-time production -- considered the city's hippest show in its early days -- slips all over itself with a cluttered and appallingly extended new edition that reveals how little a million bucks buys these days.
      The show, owned by former Riviera head honcho Meshulam Riklis, received a $1.2 million injection aimed at giving it a fresh theme and focus. A once-novel 20,000-gallon aquarium, which just sat onstage as a murky and unused obstruction toward the end of the previous version ("Splash II"), was dismantled for scrap and a half-million dead presidents were spent on new and semisnazzy costumes.
      Both were good moves geared at reviving an obsolete and cheesy revue concept. However, someone forgot about changing the content beyond the ice theme, a prophetic new opening number, a fittingly lame Cher homage and a couple of dance-heavy transitions tucked between the show's overload of specialty acts.
      The show has improved a bit, but remains a tawdry mess that dares to combine weary holdover Madonna and Michael Jackson tributes with scenes from "Evita," an ice-skated "death scene" from "Carmen" and a bunch of cast members dressed up in cobra costumes for no apparent reason.
      The whole show is one oversized non sequitur.
      The 100-plus minute show -- just a guess as I dashed for an exit when loud-buzzing motorbikes entered a steel-encased Thunderdome at the 95-minute mark -- features a cast of 43 performers that includes some 20 dancers and a handful of smooth-sounding if emotion-free singers. Overall, it's an energetic troupe that works hard -- some evidently eat with similar enthusiasm -- and does its best with dull and outmoded material.
      It's simply pushing the limits of imagination to think anyone attending an early week show felt all mushy about a clunky "Dirty Dancing" segment (inspired by the 1987 film) or laughed at the matching disco duds and John Travolta wigs worn during a "Saturday Night Fever" (1977) dance number.
      As for the specialty acts, once-ubiquitous gaucho acts are defrosted in the form of Los Latin Cowboys, a drum-pounding, bolo-twirling duo that spends much of its time tossing out Ice Age jokes ("Are you having fun? ... Then tell your face about it!") heavy on cheap gay-baiting gags that should offend as many straights as gays. Woeful stuff.
      The frenetic Richards Brothers bring some welcome mirth with their high-speed comedic juggling and the quartet of motorcyclists racing around the Thunderdome remains one of the Strip's most exciting (and noisy) acts.
      (Contortionist Undarmaa Darihuu had the evening off from this exercise in excessiveness.)
      Less impressive was a male dancer turning in tap trade-offs with a flickering laser image of a scat-singing cat in a pimp hat. The eye-widening scene was prefaced by the cat informing the half-house crowd it was witnessing a time-killer while the ice was being covered behind the curtain. So much for hiding transitions and building excitement.
      The ice-skating team of Irina Grigorian and Mikhail Panin -- are there any skaters who aren't "world champions"? -- is a solid one that's featured throughout the show, first in the new opening staged on the deck of an art-deco cruise ship. Flanking icebergs and a lip-sync version of the overbearing "My Heart Will Go On" oh so subtly indicate the Titanic troubles that lay ahead.
      Working on an ice patch that measures just more than 500-square-feet restricts the duo as far as flying axels and other moves requiring a buildup of speed. However, the couple earn the only spontaneous applause with their deft lifts, drops and catches, and exciting death spins that put Grigorian's head just inches off the ice.
      Improved lighting is offset by a tinny sounding soundtrack and "Splash" slowly begins to skid off-course under the burden of trying to jam its diverse elements into something semicohesive. It's not even close.
      Unintended laughs are in steady supply, however, courtesy of a mannered Madonna clone playing Evita from a balcony overlooking a mass of maybe 15 banner-waving supporters. The Cher segment is full of flimsy beats and bleats, the Jackson set is a reminder of the "King of Pop's" broken career and the disco dancing merely recalls one of the worst eras in modern music.
      This show has fallen so far behind the cutting-edge curve that its been lapped by virtually every production in town. What's left, and there's too much of that, is an icebound show-biz mammoth that should be left alone by anyone seeking creativity.
      As for the ill-fitting "Splash" moniker, perhaps there's another option that would more effectively reflect the show's watery past, its newfound slippery/icy nature and a failure to coalesce into something solid and functional.
      An easy one, really. Just call it "Slush."
      "Splash" hits the stage at 7:30 and 10:30 p.m. daily at the Riviera, 2901 Las Vegas Blvd. South. Admission is $39.50 and $49.50.
      Grade: D
     
      Michael Paskevich's entertainment column appears Fridays and Sundays.