FULLY EXPOSED

By RICHARD SCHICKEL

People have been getting naked in the movies on a regular basis for some 40 years now and mostly acting as if it were no big deal. That's understandable; embarrassment is anti-erotic, and besides, movie stars are prettier than we are. If you've got it, why shouldn't you flaunt it?

But what about those of us who don't have it, who for good and sufficient reason tend to dress and undress in the closet. Who speaks for us? In the movies, nobody. Nobody, that is, but the game, abashed lads on somewhat shamefaced view in The Full Monty.

They are redundant steelworkers in Sheffield, England, desperate to get off the dole and redeem their ever mounting debts. One night their leader, Gaz (Robert Carlyle, the memorable psychopath Begbie from Trainspotting), happens upon a club where male strippers are playing to a packed and howling house of local lasses, and a cockamamie idea is born. He and his mates could do that--it's semiskilled labor at best--split the obviously splendid take and at least ameliorate their troubles.

They are a marvelously mixed lot, variously overweight, uptight, overage and ungraceful, and they are moved by a nice mix of persuasive motives in Simon Beaufoy's unforced script. Director Peter Cattaneo poises their conflict between need and shame lightly but firmly, and his actors--especially Mark Addy, whose Dave struggles touchingly with flab and impotence--achieve a similarly persuasive balance between the comedy and pathos of self-exposure. Will they ultimately dare the full monty (Britspeak for removing their G-strings) at the conclusion of their first show? That's eyes-only information. But to make an unembarrassing movie about embarrassment is definitely an eye-opening achievement.

--R.S.