Bette Midler and Barry Manilow go "Back to the Bathouse"

It is unfair to rate cabaret shows, especially niche tributes. Case in point, "Bette and Barry: Back to the Bathhouse," the latest romp presented by SpinCycleNYC.com at the Laurie Beechman Theatre. By definition, the show is a success. A comedian with excellent timing? Check. A well-orchestrated, in sync, harmonic backup band? Check. Two likable onstage assistants? Sure. A straight man character? Check. Sort of.

If one can call Fonda Feingold, who plays Barry Manilow with classic ersatz charm, a straight man. Everything from Bette Midler's groundbreaking debut "The Divine Miss M" to "Beaches" gets riffed and has its time in the limelight, yet still, Bette & Co have magic to do.

When Staten Island tribute diva Donna Maxon, who embodies the iconic Honolulu chanteuse almost to blood type, quips "What did the Maxi Pad say to the fart?" and retorts, "You are the Wind Beneath My Wings," there is no doubt that this is an artist who has done her homework.

She knows everything, from Midler's home life in Hawaii to her cult following and meteoric rise at the now-mythical Continental Baths, the gay bathhouse in the basement of the city's legendary Ansonia Hotel. When she's not discussing the police raids at the bathhouse or the AIDS epidemic that followed, she's reminisces about Midler's nervous breakdown in Europe, her persona Soph, meeting Barry Manilow, comments on her alleged affairs with Prince and Mick Jagger, as well as wisecracks about her gay icon status alongside Liza Minnelli and Barbra Streisand.

But there's no mention of the film that brought Midler even widespread attention, "The Rose," the rock 'n roll drug addiction tragedy inspired by the life and times of Janis Joplin. Little mention of her renowned "Divine Madness." Not even a mention of "Hocus Pocus," the film that perhaps reintroduced her to a younger audience, and today's gay youth. Therein lies the problem.

Even with her volcano-red wig and firecracker bright first costume, or second gold-dusted Studio 54 vogue wardrobe, both spot-on, she doesn't quite channel the magic of a live Bette Midler performance. Midler's robust mezzo-soprano voice is substituted by Maxon's thinner, more saccharine tone. The same can be said with the show. Despite all of the efforts of wry humor, lightning quick witticism, and sparkling sass, the show's true hamartia: almost zero trace of camp.

Beyond the various achievements that she had has, Midler is a campy mama. Camp -- artifice blown so overboard, it generates a perversely sophisticated appeal -- is what started Midler's rocket to fame, and what has rooted her, not only as a gay icon, but also among the American Songbook dames. Essentially, without this element, Midler, a ballsy one-of-a-kind talent, is emasculated.

Women like the Tumblr-brained grab-and-go Lady Gaga have taken many cues of camp and inspiration from Midler throughout their entire career. Thus, a tribute in honor of Midler should be the campiest event off-Broadway: Inebriated mermaids in champagne flutes, go-go boys a la Go-Go-Gadget, leis being thrown out into the audience like birth control.

Nevertheless, if camp isn't your thing, or, rather you prefer Midler's music to her theatricality (does such a person exist?), go for the tunes. More than glorified karaoke, these women -- Donna Maxon as Bette Midler and bandleader Fonda Feingold as Barry Manilow -- are devotees. Feingold's blood rages with electricity and passion when she sings "Mandy," "Copacabana (At the Copa)" and Maxon smiles with the whimsy of a young ing�nue discovering her life's work is to be center stage. But if you can't quite warm up to these ladies, there's always wine.