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More Britney reviews are coming in...hahahaha


King Baby

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The trouble with once having been a teenage superstar and the most famous virgin in the world, is that it's hard to grow up. Britney Spears's conundrum, at the age of 29, is how to translate the effortless apple-pie sex appeal she once possessed into a marketable product as an adult performer. Judging by the evidence of her Femme Fatale tour at the O2 on Thursday, Spears has conspicuously failed to do so.

Britney Spears O2, London Until 28 Oct, then touring Guardian tickets Venue website Her sexuality these days seems to consist of having things done to her while wearing very little. On stage she sports a varied array of sequined bikinis and fishnet tights, while she is handcuffed in a cage and a prison guard writhes against her. Later, a mustachioed Hell's Angel spins her round on the handlebars of his motorbike and a series of 1950s-style newspaper photographers jam their cameras up her billowing skirt trying to get pictures of her crotch.

On the hi-tech video screens behind Britney's pliable physical presence, filmed footage of a bizarre villain with a shaved head and an unexplained penchant for cracking lollipops between his teeth is repeated ad nauseam. The idea seems to be that this evil man is trying to track Britney down and kill her but keeps getting outwitted by her extraordinary facility for disguise and running fast in extremely high heels. "Tonight, you and I dance a vicious dance," the lollipop-cracker drones on.

If only Britney were dancing a vicious dance, or indeed any kind of dance at all. Instead, we are treated to 75 minutes of lethargic, dead-eyed routines with apparently lip-synched lyrics and staged spontaneity (every time a "fan" is asked on-stage, they miraculously seem to be wearing a Britney T-shirt). Spears can barely muster up the energy to move from one side of the stage to the other. Instead, a frenziedly spirited troupe of backing dancers is left to pick up the slack, while Britney clambers aboard various moving parts of machinery and is wheeled around like an ancient maiden aunt being taken for her morning perambulation in a bath chair.

For "Gimme More", she is pushed on stage in an Egyptian barge and proceeds to jiggle about pointlessly in sparkly gold pants, going through the motions as though in rehearsal, rather than performing to a paying audience. Presumably, she intends to channel the spirit of Cleopatra. Sadly, it seems to be Cleopatra post-mummification.

For "Don't Let Me Be the Last to Know", she clambers gingerly on to a swing and is winched several feet above ground like a shipping crate. Again and again, Spears is raised and lowered, while the dancers cavort around her as if she is the handbag left on the nightclub floor on a girls' night out.

Even her best songs suffer. During "Piece of Me", the single released at the height of Spears's public breakdown and intended as a riposte to the money-grabbing, fame-seeking celebrity vortex, the background screen is filled with nonsensical images of shotguns and hand grenades. The show tries so hard to portray Spears as dangerous, edgy and sexy that she ends up being none of these things.

It is sad seeing someone who once revelled in performing so uncomfortable in the public gaze. Spears's father, Jamie, was awarded "conservatorship" of his troubled daughter following her public disintegration in 2008, during which she lost custody of her children amid allegations of drug and alcohol problems. Is he the one persuading her to take to the road and raise the necessary funds? Because this Britney, with her robotic smile and listless presence, is a pale imitation of what she once was. It is hard to escape the conclusion that the ceaseless demands of celebrity have taken their toll and she's sick to the back teeth of it all.

And yet her fans continue to love her. They scream when she takes a raincoat off. They scream when she puts it back on. They scream when Britney walks to one side of the stage, lifting her heels high like a Lipizzaner show pony. They scream when she launches into a curtailed version of "Hit Me Baby (One More Time)". They scream long into the night and when they leave, trailing out of the O2 in their pigtails and school uniforms, they are rewarded with free "scented tattoos", distributed by security guards at the exits. The tattoos, we are told, are fragranced with Britney's own Cosmic Radiance perfume, available at a discount in branches of Superdrug. Unfortunately, not even Cosmic Radiance can disguise the fact that this show stinks.

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