I hedged a bit when I first wrote about Magic Mike, noting that the final act had problems. I stand by that, but as time has passed, I find I care less and less about where the movie sags and more about its thrilling thrust. Inspired in part by star Channing Tatum’s own experience as a male stripper, the film makes this hedonistic world appear both unbearably sleazy and wickedly intoxicating, often in the same gasped breath. In that way, it races along the same track as Paul Thomas Anderson’s Boogie Nights, but Anderson’s vivid sprawl is replaced by director Steven Soderbergh’s trademark understated intimacy. Soderbergh’s determination to treat every project, no matter how ludicrous it may seem on the surface, with assured dignity enlivens the entire film, coaxing nuance out of the most tried-and-true aspects of the plot: the neophyte who gets corrupted, the bad boy finding his better self through falling in love with the good girl, the charismatic impresario whose acts of exploitation are masked by effusive geniality but still practically gives off a whiff of sulfur every time he appears. For the latter element, Soderbergh has a stealth weapon in Matthew McConaughey, finally liberated from a parade of dismal romantic comedies and allowed to turn his natural onscreen magnetism towards salaciously entertaining ends. Soderbergh has made a lot of surprising turns across his career. Magic Mike is new, compelling evidence that no matter how doubtful his choices may seem, he always does seem to know exactly where he’s going and he has a good reason for taking that route.