"The Showgirl Must Go On," the singer's two-year commitment to the Colosseum at Caesars Palace, sometimes plays as if it's trying too hard to make everyone happy, as though the star were stricken with a case of sudden self-consciousness about things that came naturally for years.

The new enterprise feels most comfortable when it's most familiar, with Midler doing time-honored routines that leap traditional age divides just as easily as she switches from dirty jokes to luminous singing.

The new challenge is how to make the $10 million production fill its massive stage without losing the room-warming energy that radiates mostly from one person.

It's perfectly understandable that the shakiest segment is not only the one that attempts to do something new, but also one that pulls the focus away from the star: the big, satiric production number built around Midler's mermaid character Delores DeLago.

And it will surprise no one, or at least it shouldn't, that the most touching moment is Midler sitting on the stage steps and strumming a ukulele to "The Glory Of Love."

It's harder to explain the star's sudden camera-shyness, the weird contrast between the cheeky ad photos for "Showgirl" and the complete absence of video close-ups in the show. What's up with seeing Simon Cowell and Elvis impersonator Tony Roi on the Colosseum's giant high-def screen, but no Bette?

The peekaboo poster art could be chalked up to Midler's camp aesthetic, given that nearly everyone knows what can be done with Photoshop these days. Is that really her naked body? Sorta, kinda, wink wink.

But those who file by the posters on the escalator to their second-balcony seats are sure to revolt against this misplaced modesty. And modesty is a trait most unbecoming to the Divine one, whose facial expressions help sell many an old Sophie Tucker joke.

But the Celine Dion folks also tried the same skimpy approach to video and later remedied it. It's a reminder that "Showgirl" is still in the early stages. Toni Basil, Midler's longtime choreographer, said the star keeps tinkering so much that once, on the final night of a limited run, they reinstated a number that had been cut just before the opening.

This bodes well for the tightening of Delores' production number, which takes a funny idea -- Wayne Newton summoning the mermaid to Vegas -- and stretches it to nearly 20 minutes of padded, forced zaniness. The overstuffed approach begins with not just Newton but also the "American Idol" judges on the video screen.

Delores' dreams of "O" turn into "Sunque du So Low" at the condemned Daze Inn. Her spirit is crushed until a pep talk from Elvis inspires a showgirls-on-wheel(chair)s revue, Busby Berkeley by way of "Murderball." If it sounds funnier here than it plays onstage, it's because I'm leaving out all the fish puns.

Basil and the costume designers have a more graceful touch paying tribute to classic Vegas floor shows. The 20 showgirls parade around with dollar signs on their heads during the title number, when Midler explains it was the "(boat)load of cash they're payin' me!" that lured her to the Strip.

A warm rendition of "Do You Want to Dance" leads to a rhythmic number with parasols that show off Basil's eclectic influences while the star changes costumes. Midler's "Oldest Showgirl in the World" routine creates a full-feathered finale that salutes the Copa Girls or revues such as "Folies Bergere."

Perhaps wisely, considering the show follows Celine Dion's "A New Day," there's not much production to distract from Midler's serious singing. She delivers the slim rations of obligatory hits such as "The Rose" front and center with the 13-piece band, swirling barefoot for "From A Distance." A projected image of a vintage New York skyline subtly underscores John Prine's touching song about old age, "Hello In There."

Midler's singing was stronger on the show's official opening night, Feb. 29, but she was funnier in an employee preview on Feb. 18. In true Johnny Carson form, the "saves" from fumbled jokes were funnier than the scripted versions delivered perfectly a week later.

Likewise, a story she told reporters at the postshow party -- about the donkey seen in the opening video and its late "roommate" -- brought more honest laughs than many of the scripted jokes; the written gags were less conspicuous back when longtime collaborator Bruce Vilanch had a lower profile.

All Midler seems to need is time to be herself, or at least the persona she's created for herself. And that's never been much of a problem.

Contact Mike Weatherford at 383-0288 or e-mail him at mweatherford@ reviewjournal.com.