Directed by and starring Michael Flatley. At GM Place on Monday, October 17

I have lived for 50 years, a privileged citizen of a privileged country. I've been sheltered from much unpleasantness. If you were to tell me that every minute of every day, somewhere in the world, there is something under way that is more bewildering and more gloriously vulgar than Michael Flatley's latest Irish dance extravaganza Celtic Tiger, I'd believe you. But whatever it is, I have never seen it. Let's acknowledge right away that, based on audience response, I advance a minority opinion. Let it also be said that the cast is young and talented. There were instances of outstanding choreography and some really thrilling demonstrations of precision dancing. But the whole is bloated and unfocused. What lingers is the feeling that this is something that happened in Vegas and should have stayed in Vegas.

Celtic Tiger has an ambitious agenda. The first half presents a potted history of Ireland. We begin with a tribe of step-dancing Celts-Flatley is their chief-and then proceed through a series of encounters between priests and pagans (snakes begone!), between invading Norsemen (I think) and the pastel-skirted village maidens they've come to pollinate (and who all seem quite gay about the prospect), and between British redcoats (hiss! boo!) and starving village folk, represented by the men with their shirts open to the navel and the women in black, thigh-revealing rags and stylish thongs. It all comes to a head with the 1916 dustup, and the birth of the Republic. Here and there, between times, are curious little set pieces that allow Lord Flatley to prance-which he does well, if not so frequently as was once the case-or play the flute. Also memorable was a pastoral interlude with the women all dressed as butterflies, bees, and ladybugs. At first I thought it was a joke, but if ever there was a punch line I missed it altogether.

The second half was meant-I'm guessing at this-to situate, through dance, Ireland in the contemporary world, which turned out to be mostly the United States of America. All this was accomplished against a background of seizure-inducing projections, flashing lights, occasional explosions, and sundry cheap effects. The machinery ground to a halt with a raucous rendition of "Yankee Doodle" and the waving of Old Glory all around. Just after this deeply Republican episode, the guitarist, filling time while the cast changed for the encore, did a Jimi Hendrix turn with "O Canada". And that was when the audience really went nuts, responding in a genuine way to the first and last moment in the evening to which you'd care to attach the word honest.