I appreciate that the episodes of Welcome to Chippendales are contracting as the story grows more serious and — let’s be real — more boring. Once upon a time, stripping was the series’ beefy main course; now it’s but an amuse-bouche to Nick and Steve’s tiring power struggle. That the club’s attorney has more lines than its dance crew sends a clear and concise message: The time for fun and games and well-oiled pecs is over.
Chippendales East, though, continues to be a rollicking success. There’s a fully functional shower in the middle of the stage, for goodness’ sake, and the bigwigs who passed on “U.S. Male” have come back to Nick a-grovellin’. Calvin Klein’s in the VIP section. So are Brooke Shields and the future ex–Mrs. Eddie Van Halen, Valerie Bertinelli. Unfortunately, Steve, too, is in New York. All the time. For no reason. His kink is reminding Nick that he’s only a paid employee, but Nick should be enjoying the last laugh here. He’s the one fielding catcalls of “Mr. Chippendales” down at the hot-dog cart.
Regrettably, Nick is just as sensitive as the big boss is chippy. To escape Steve’s grasp, Brad sells Nick on the idea of a Chippendales world tour. Surely, a family man like Steve doesn’t have time to stalk Nick around the globe … does he?
If Chippendales East is Broadway, Chippendales West feels more like a themed restaurant, maybe a Planet Hollywood. The attractions have lost their luster; I have a hunch that if you looked at the menu, you’d find that all the prices end in 99 cents. And there’s trouble in Planet Hollywood. Steve missed a deposition in his racial-discrimination lawsuit — now a class action with 13 plaintiffs — because he was too busy pestering Nick in New York. His attorney is talking about damages in the millions. The solvency of the club hangs in the balance.
Steve’s plan is to cover the difference by doubling calendar sales, which perhaps overestimates the appetite for pinup calendars. I get that people aren’t checking the date on their iPhones, but surely naked men in rattan chairs don’t go with every ’80s oak kitchen. When Nick pitches Steve the world tour idea, it sounds like a lifeline. They can even stop in Mumbai — take that, Ma. It should be a win-win! And then Steve suggests they do the proposed 50-50 deal without a lawyer. I’ve seen enough TV to know there’s no such thing as a hastily scrawled, back-of-the-diner napkin contract that doesn’t end in litigation or worse.
Still, Steve ostentatiously announces his “shrewd moves” to Irene via a blingy necklace. But Irene isn’t in the mood for gemstones right now. She wants Steve to be the man she thought she was marrying and not a racist who goes to Jared every time he screws up. Or at least she wants to want that. Instead, she’s easily seduced into keeping Steve’s guilt gift by a shopgirl who implores her to be the glamorous socialite Steve envisioned when he bought it. And, honestly, why draw the line at diamonds? You’ll marry the guy and live with him and help run his stripping empire and raise his (incredibly cute) kid, but gifts above a certain cash value offend you? Bleed him dry, Irene.
The necklace is more than a talisman of her updated status as the ultimate moll. Putting it on seems to imbue her with scandalous powers of her own. Suddenly, Irene’s a bad girl diluting the top-shelf vodka with poison from the rail, fishing vials of coke from the deep pockets of her mink, and getting that afternoon delight with Steve on his campaign desk. And then again in the store room. (It’s not important, but for the record, Kumail Nanjiani’s shirt still does not come off.)
Steve lies his way through the eventual trial, denying the existence of his bigoted VIP program and even going so far as to deny ever having seen the gold VIP cards he previously stored in his unlocked desk drawer. Remarkably, justice prevails. A group of non-white men successfully sues an incredibly rich man for racist practices. The suit is so successful that Steve’s lawyer suggests Chippendales file for bankruptcy — a nonstarter for Steve because bankruptcies end up in The Wall Street Journal.
There’s been a subtle transformation in Steve, I think, since he was a guy with a dream of a backgammon club. Back then, he wanted the trappings of wealth, like sharp suits and a gold Rolex. Now money is not enough. He needs to be seen to be wealthy. Mr. Chippendales is labor; Mr. Banerjee is capital. I guess it’s cute how financial peril and corporate malfeasance are bringing Irene and Steve closer together. Or, if not closer, at least hornier for each other.
For most of “February 31st,” Steve is weirdly, loudly bullish about the new drop of calendars. But I confess it’s only as the models start flicking through the shipment that it dawned on me what the episode’s title could possibly refer to. February 31st. February 31st! In the bare-chested year of Chippendales, every single month lasts 31 rotations of Earth. Steve Banerjee is the owner of half a million calendars in which a year comprises 372 days. God is in the details, isn’t he? It’s not the whites-only membership roll that brings you down. It’s the fact that you didn’t follow dad’s advice: Always double-check your proofs, son.
Despite the glittering success of Chippendales as a globe-trotting phenomenon, the Banerjees file for Chapter 11. But the company line — at least the one Steve feeds Ray to disseminate in the employee locker room — is that everything will be fine. It’s so fine, in fact, that he sends Ray to spy on Nick just to make sure the royalty checks he’s been receiving are sufficiently fat.
Oh, Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve, Steve. I don’t agree with his mother that some men aren’t meant to be rich, but some men 100 percent are not meant to do business deals without an attorney present. Surprise! Turns out Steve’s belief that a contract written on a House of Pies napkin won’t be binding is false. It also turns out he’s signed over half the tour money forever because he was too embarrassed to ask Nick what the word “perpetuity” meant. Now he’s making less than 50 percent off the tour. He’s making 50 percent minus the money he’s spending spying on Nick to make sure he’s getting his full 50 percent.
Bad news travels, well, not fast in the mid-’80s, but reliably. It’s not long before Steve’s mother learns about the whole affair: the stripping, the fire-department violations, the lawsuit, the bankruptcy, but mostly the stripping, which is for sure not the same as backgammon, which was bad enough. “I can’t believe you’re my son,” she tells him over the phone in utter disgust. Just imagine if she knew about the 372 days it now takes Earth to orbit the Sun! It’s at this moment, though, that my heart finally swells with compassion for Steve. No matter the year or it’s length or your country of origin, parents can be so deeply and unrelentingly annoying.
