I don’t have a signed document to this effect or anything, but I do believe I have previously pledged to follow director Steven Soderbergh anywhere. That has brought me some undue misery over the years, but I’ve largely stuck by it. And I now have a ticket stub for Magic Mike to further ratify my commitment to Soderbergh’s ongoing (or potentially drawing to a close) cinematic cause. This film about male strippers, loosely based on star Channing Tatum’s own experiences in that odd corner of the entertainment field, has been a perplexing addition to Soderbergh’s filmography ever since it was announced. Every description of the project made it sound like Coyote Ugly with the gender roles reversed and the skeezy New York bar replaced by the sort of disco-lit facility where bachelorette parties go to scream, stuff dollars into speedos and puke up a night’s worth of sugary shots. And that’s exactly what it is.

I think the key to understanding the appeal of the project to Soderbergh (beyond the mysterious wager he seems to have made that challenges him to turn any wild concept thrown at him into a movie) can be found in Matthew McConaughey’s description of his character, the randy, half-crazed club owner Dallas, in a recent New York Times article: “He’s this poet-capitalist-warlord-messiah of the male revue world. None of that’s funny until you say ‘of the male revue world.'” Through much of Magic Mike, that’s the vibe that Soderbergh is dipping into. The story involving a neophyte plucked to become part of the big, garish show might be clichéd, but the uncommon setting gives it a goofy appeal. The screenplay credited to Reid Carolin is proudly steeped in the world of backstage pick-me-ups and frank, unfazed discussion of the built-in salaciousness of the habitat these characters exist within. Soderbergh similarly basks in it proudly, shooting the stage performances to emphasize their impressive athleticism and coaxing the actors into easy, naturalistic performances that prevent the film from becoming a cartoonish mess. Against all odds, Soderbergh turns the first portion of Magic Mike into something like Showgirls with redemptive self-awareness, and it’s remarkably entertaining.

While it should be no surprise from the guy who somehow managed to make Andie MacDowell look like an Oscar-worthy actress in his very first film, Soderbergh’s work with the actors is especially impressive. I can make no claim to exhaustive knowledge of the film work of Channing Tatum, but what little I have seen surely didn’t convince me he was anything more than a pretty-boy dullard with shockingly little screen presence. That perception started to shift a bit after Soderbergh’s Haywire earlier this year, and I’m forced into reconsidering it altogether on the basis of a charismatic, shrewdly lived-in performance here. There’s also a very nice supporting turn from Olivia Munn and a performance by Cody Horn that deserves to have “star-making” affixed to it as a descriptor. Finally, there’s McConaughey, dropped into a role so perfectly suited for his brashly confident but slightly oily and even off-putting charm that he should seriously consider tossing his cowboy hat into the crowd and calling it a career; he may do more admirable acting in the future, but he will never again be so clearly in his element on screen.

Alas, it’s all too good to last. Although one of Soderbergh’s sharpest, most consistent skills as a filmmaker involves finding the freshness and truth in well-worn story patterns, the last act of Magic Mike finally piles on too many tired elements for even him to overcome. As what had been fun turns sour for the characters, the same sad erosion of spirit infects the movie itself. It slumps to the finish, tired out by its own unsustainable frothiness. Before that, though, it does improbably live up to its title: it’s magic, all right.