As the stage version of The Full Monty comes to Dublin Peter Crawley wonders whether it measures up to the big screen version.

The Full Monty

Olympia Theatre, Dublin

I know what you're wondering: Just how much of themselves have the men in The Full Monty chosen to reveal? At the risk of spoiling the surprise of this Irish production of the American musical adaptation of the English film, the answer is: full disclosure, but we don't quite get to see it all.

Following the collapse of their steel plant in Buffalo, New York (Sheffield, the industrial wasteland of the original, was clearly not sexy enough for Broadway audiences), six unemployed men begin a brisk, synchronised unfastening of their emasculation. Next they wriggle free from their sexual frustrations and bodily hang-ups before finally, shamelessly, exposing the full extent, shape and girth of their crisis in masculinity.

"They forget you have feelings," a successful male stripper says of his female following.

"You end up feeling like a piece of meat." This is wise counsel for our redundant Average Joe (Edward Baker-Duly) who happens to have the sculpted body of a Calvin Klein model and who needs fast money to maintain custody of his child.

Clearly supportive of the delicate flowering of male empowerment (Baker-Duly's in particular) the female contingent of the Olympia's audience guides his rag-tag group in their emancipation from clothing with voluble whoops of encouragement.

Silver posing pouches are not the only things shed in composer David Yazbek and librettist Terrence McNally's adaptation. Gone is the grim counterbalance of north Yorkshire and the priapic encouragement of Tom Jones.

Here instead are bewildering Broadway in-jokes (delivered in the poorly camouflaged Dublin tones of June Rogers) and a parping, swinging, jazzy score, which - despite excellent performances from the cast - yields few showstoppers, and many that merely slow it down.

What gets The Full Monty through three hours, other than sustaining glimpses of man-flesh, are the performances of elastic limbed comedian Mark Connell, the sympathetic displays of Simon Delaney (who also directs) and Ellen McElroy and a beautifully-judged hilarious cameo by Ciaran Bermingham.

Ultimately, though, no one cares about the human dilemmas; whether child support is maintained, employment found or impotence conquered. Delaney is happily aware that the title of The Full Monty is a promise and, mingling the non-stripping cast members with the audience, he makes the final thrust of the production a pelvic one.

Those expecting a full frontal display of the male condition, however, may be disappointed: the spotlights are pointed the other way. More tease than strip, then, the production sheds little light on manhood; and its coy retreat becomes ultimately more revealing.

Runs until September 2nd

Peter Crawley