It looks like a can’t-miss, if not particularly original, script. You got your century-old house of pleasure just outside the Texas town limits, where the employees behave like ladies, the customers behave like gentlemen, and no one gets the clap. The proprietor, Miss Mona, is a class act who supports all the local charities and is sweet on the town sheriff. Free enterprise flourishes in the home of the brave, and everybody’s happy. Then some hypocritical " family values " TV consumer watchdog is shocked — shocked — to discover that " Texas has a whorehouse in it. " One by one, the politicians — mayor, senator, governor — cave in. The sheriff is told to shut the place down, but he rallies the citizens and in an impassioned speech persuades the governor and everyone else to mind their own business. Miss Mona and her girls are back in business, and everybody’s happy again.
At least, that’s how uproarious, feel-good musicals are supposed to end. But The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, which first hit the boards in 1978, is based on the true story of Edna Milton and her Chicken Ranch (so called because during Depression poultry were accepted in lieu of cash). In fact, Edna’s establishment did get closed down, in 1973; a Playboy story followed, and that led to the musical (the film version, with Dolly Parton and Burt Reynolds, appeared in 1982). And in its musical incarnation, the story is a cartoon without a convincing shape. Watchdog Melvin P. Thorpe and the politicians are ludicrously risible; Mona and her ladies are beautiful, intelligent, talented, and just plain adorable. The short second act slides downhill faster than, as Sheriff Ed Earl Dodd would say, " gooseshit through a tin funnel " : the governor does his endless " Sidestep " of " tough " questions from the media; Ed Earl and, for some reason, the Texas A&M football team (a night at the ranch was their reward for beating Texas) salute " Good Old Girl " Miss Mona; the girls decide that leaving the ranch is like a " Hard Candy Christmas " ; and Miss Mona, reflects that Ed Earl has always been " A Friend to Me. " That’s it. The " Finale " isn’t even connected to the plot — it’s a curtain call, an excuse for the cast to shake their booty while the audience claps along.
The compact two-level set at the Colonial Theatre has the Hired Hand Band front and center enclosed in what looks like a bar, with a weathered Lone Star state flag draped overhead and a trio of slowly revolving ceiling fans; but the bar slides back and twin staircases slide in to create an upstairs downstairs with plenty of room for snappy dancing by Miss Mona’s girls and the Texas Aggies (the latter choo-choo fashion on a long bench in a number with engaging homoerotic overtones). And there are some cute touches, like the yellow-rose bouquets carried by Melvin’s blond-wigged " Dogettes, " and the hints of " Yellow Rose of Texas " and " San Antonio Rose " in the score.
As for Ann-Margret (she’ll be 61 on closing night, so don’t forget to sing " Happy Birthday " ), she still looks and sings great. But she doesn’t do much dancing, and she’s straitjacketed by the generic character — I kept wishing she’d drop the Miss Mona persona and just play herself. Gary Sandy is a hard-talking, straight-shooting, not-very-interesting Ed Earl who doesn’t quite see to the heart of Miss Mona; Roxie Lucas has some gravel in her voice and some grit in her portrayal of waitress Doatsy Mae (another lady who slips the sheriff’s eye). Rob Donohoe as Watchdog, Ed Dixon as the governor, and Matt Landers as both a Texas senator and the Gilbert mayor are effective in their silly stereotypes, as is Avery Sommers in her comforting stereotype as the girls’ large black den mother. But it’s all so obvious, so innocuous, so . . . mainstream. Why couldn’t someone revive Li’l Abner instead of this turkey?
