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AMERICAN SUPERSTARS Vegas worships all things artificial (see the Mirage hotel’s volcano or the upper torso of your average cocktail waitress). So it only makes sense this town is big on celebrity impersonator shows. This one, unlike Legends in Concert, aims for the videogame crowd. Instead of Elvis and Sammy, you’ll see a rapping Will Smith, a voguing Madonna, and some zig-a-zagging Spice Girls (Ginger’s back!). The performers ape the stars competently enough, but unless you brought a wee one to Sin City, choosing Spice wannabes over the man who would be King seems sacrilegious, not to mention unpatriotic (American superstars my butt). (Stratosphere; 702-380-7711) C

DANNY GANS He’s the man of a thousand voices. Or 63 anyway. This smiley impersonator channels everyone from Kermit to Michael Jackson (no show escapes the King of Pop; he’s the only, uh, male to appear in the drag-fest La Cage). The good news: Gans is a brilliant mimic. When he does Tom Jones, his face morphs, his voice drops, and you’re tempted to toss your panties on stage. The bad news: Gans emits an oily game-show-host vibe, and when he tries to do shtick instead of straight-ahead impressions, the results can be as witless as Forrest Gump (who is, of course, featured). Consider his Michael Bolton/Dr. Ruth duet: ”When a man loves a woman … he needs to use protection.” (Rio Suite; 702-252-7776) B

ENTER THE NIGHT Dorothy Hamill still wears her hair short and sassy, and until the end of August also spins handily during the ice-skating portions of this otherwise low-energy mosh pit of a revue. Topless showgirls parade aimlessly; the banter includes stupid ”pansy” jokes; and the sexy, talented cast is reduced to constantly begging the audience to give it up! Weeks after you’ve seen it, you’ll remain haunted by what I assume to be an ”undersea” number, in which the chorus boys wear Neptune-ish costumes, blue Siegfried wigs, and ram horns. (Stardust; 702-732-6325) D

FOLIES BERGERE … SEXIER THAN EVER! It’s all here: sequins. Feathers. A complete lack of plot or theme. And more bare breasts than the Porky‘s trilogy. The Folies, this town’s longest-running production, is old-time, unself-conscious, showgirls-filled Vegas entertainment at its purest. The show is basically a topless dancing tour of the decades, from the cancan to the jitterbug to a Southern-fried hoedown. The lesson is that styles may come and go, but women are always horny. The highlight has to be the homage to modern-day, independent females featuring babes in black storm-trooper outfits fondling guns. According to the announcer, you see, today’s gal ”packs an AK-47 and knows how to use it.” Camille Paglia would be proud. (Tropicana; 800-829-9034) B+

IMAGINE Think of it as Cirque du Soleil manqué. Hoping to clone the stunning Canadian show, Imagine has tossed together acrobats, jesters, magic, eerie music, and dark lighting but forgot Cirque’s subtlety and sense of fun. In fact, thanks to Imagine‘s silly dance numbers, it comes off more like a bad Paula Abdul video. The three-part structure whisks us from the misty past (gals in Egyptian-themed bodysuits) to the high-tech future (Day-Glo bodysuits), with a quick stop at ”an aquatic playground of unlimited dimension” (seaweedy bodysuits). A low point: After a waterlogged magic trick, the acrobats try really, really hard to make an amusing show out of mopping up the floor. But no matter how you disguise it, watching household chores is dull as dishwater. (Luxor; 800-557-7428) D

JUBILEE! If you crave an homage to the Titanic disaster featuring scantily clad dancers and no frozen corpses, Jubilee‘s for you. Special bonus: The Titanic number lasts only 13 minutes. Jubilee, like the charmingly vintage Folies Bergere, is a holdout of the showgirls genre, but one that’s adopted today’s ”Size matters” credo. It’s got more topless babes, taller headdresses, and vaster sets (along with the sinking Titanic, there’s a collapsing temple for the slinky Samson and Delilah dance). All of which makes it hugely entertaining. (Bally’s, 800-237-7469) B+

AN EVENING AT LA CAGE Not to be too cute about it, but this show’s a drag. The idea: cross-dressing men lip-synching to their favorite divas, some convincingly (the Cher is a dead ringer), some not so (the Judy Garland looks more like Nathan Lane). As drag queens might say, Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt. In this drag-savvy, post-RuPaul era, La Cage seems a tad stale. That said, the night I went, the drag Joan Rivers (as if that’s not redundant) was a real trouper. He/she had just undergone a painful dental procedure but soldiered on with the show anyway. This, despite what appeared to be an alarming drooling problem requiring frequent napkin dabs and an often-incomprehensible marble-mouthed delivery. ”Can we talk?” Well, not really. (Riviera; 702-794-9433) C

LANCE BURTON, MASTER MAGICIAN ”I have to be careful,” this 38-year-old Kentucky-born illusionist says during a trick with some white doves. ”Last week, one of them got away and killed the tiger down the street.” Corny but telling: Burton is the anti-Siegfried & Roy. With a low-key patter reminiscent of Garrison Keillor, Burton is at his best with the small stuff: vanishing candles, dancing hankies, evaporating cards, and a trained parakeet who’s named Elvis. (This being Vegas, he also does some jumbo tricks, including levitating a sports car). A refreshing — and much cheaper — alternative to the tight-panted twosome. (Monte Carlo; 800-311-8999) B

LEGENDS IN CONCERT When Sissy Spacek and Jessica Lange play famous people, they get to go to the Oscars; when a guy puts on an Elvis suit for a Vegas audience, some would call that bad camp. Well, that’s not fair, at least not in this case. In addition to a convincing King, there’s a funny Tina Turner (”Are there any proud Marys in the house?”) and, of course, a dead-on Michael Jackson. The show’s drag free, and the performers do all their own singing, accompanied by sharply choreographed cuties and video clips of the actual stars. Except when Ritchie Valens takes the stage and the monitors show Lou Diamond Phillips. (Imperial Palace; 702-794-3261) B

MICHAEL FLATLEY’S LORD OF THE DANCE Actually, Michael Flatley (the real Lord of the Dance) is nowhere in sight. But that’s fine. A group of talented lads and lasses kick off the jig by performing a Druid-y kind of ceremony, and before long they’re stomping, leaping, and tapping with lightning-quick precision. The program explains something about ”the ancient clans” and ”a new dark power,” but I don’t really get it. It’s awfully loud and wholly without sex appeal — though even while your mind is wandering, coming up with new titles for the show, like Ministry of Silly Walks: The Musical!, you cannot deny the artistry and skill of the dancers. (New York-New York; 702-740-6815) B-

THE GREAT RADIO CITY SPECTACULAR Frankly, if another Rockette never dressed up as another toy soldier, that would be fine with me. But while this infomusical about New York’s Radio City Music Hall is instantly forgettable, it’s not unbearable. The night I saw it, it had Paige O’Hara (hers was the lovely voice of Belle in the Disney movie Beauty and the Beast) and there was a dog act. For my money, there’s nothing more entertaining than Disney tunes and tightroping dogs. But I can’t give it a grade. O’Hara rotates with Susan Anton, for whom I cannot vouch. And get this: The dog act has been replaced by a magician. I tell you, there’s no accounting for taste. (Flamingo Hilton; 800-221-7299) NA

SPELLBOUND Starring a magician named Ayala! — a name that, to me, seems incomplete without an exclamation mark. He notes in his program bio that on an NBC special he was described as ”the best Latin act in the known Universe.” Personally, I’d give that title to Jennifer Lopez, but he is entertaining. The show’s funny featured juggler works his own magic with a bowling ball and a peanut M&M. Now, that’s spellbinding. (Harrah’s; 800-392-9002) B-

SPLASH It took some diligence but we found it: The Worst Show Imaginable. Running since 1985, this threadbare mess now features showgirls in leather bustiers and horrid blond wigs, some gauchos (Latin rope artists/comedians whose entire act hinges on antigay and anti-Asian anti-humor), and various celebrity impersonators. The title is apparently drawn from the opening synchronized-swimming number, in which two beauties bathe simultaneously in a tank that looks like it could use a good scrubbing. But the most unsettling sequence involves several cyclists tearing around inside a big metal sphere — a notable feat not only because they avoid head-on collisions but because they give you a good idea of what it’s like to take a chain saw to the forehead for three solid minutes, in case you were wondering. (Riviera; 702-794-9433) F

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