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One of the top-rated shows on television is “Dancing with the Stars,” a program that husbands and wives can watch together (the wives for the dancing, the husbands for ogling the leggy female dancers). Each Monday night, my wife and I settle on our living room sofa to watch people, who can’t dance, try to dance.
Using the term “stars” to identify the contestants is admittedly a stretch. We’re not talking Cameron Diaz and Matt Damon here. There is Kendra Wilkinson whose main claim to fame is her marriage to former Eagles’ player, Hank Baskett, who himself is not exactly a star and obviously can make a pass better than he can catch one. Kendra also is known for making two sex videos, the first one reportedly “embarrassed” her so much that she made a second. Recently Kendra blamed her poor performance on “raging hormones.” It wasn’t certain whether she was referring to her dancing or her sex videos.
Other “stars” include someone named Mike Catherwood who works with Dr. Drew on “Loveline.” Catherwood mercifully was excused from the show after the first round, but not so much because of his dancing but for his anonymity. Kirstie Alley took a spill one week and lost her shoe the next and still continues on the show because all of us want to see what she does for an encore. There is also rap artist Romeo, who is Master P’s son, who is attempting to redeem his father’s inept appearance in a prior season. In 30 seconds, Master P’s inept pasodoble became legendary on YouTube.
Originally, I thought the saddest moment in the show’s history came when former astronaut Buzz Aldrin proved a walk on the moon does not necessarily prepare you to do the pasodoble. But this season, another of my idols, Sugar Ray Leonard, reached a sadder end when he was bumped from the show after trying to dance to Tchaikovsky (I kid you not).
Tom Bergeron hosts the show with the realization this is the easiest money a man can make other than appearing in a Wilkinson sex video. His co-host is Brooke Burke, a former Sports Illustrated swimsuit model and a previous contestant on the show, proves her superlative interviewing technique when she asks a contestant, “so how do you feel about the judges calling you an idiot with two left feet?”
Like “American Idol,” the show features themes. The most unfortunate choice was classical. You haven’t lived until you watch people dancing to an overwrought pop rendition of “Beethoven’s Fifth.” As if ballet didn’t take enough of a hit with the lesbian scene in “Black Swan” (which is the only part of the film I have seen a few dozen times), the show did a specially adapted-version of “Swan Lake.” Beethoven should have rolled over and given Tchaikovsky the news.
I confess, not being knowledgeable about the art of dance. Until “Dancing with the Stars,” I would have guessed a pasodoble was the place in Mexico where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid met their fate. Actually, it is a type of Spanish marching music played as bullfighters enter the ring.
“Dancing with the Stars” loves to dress the male like a matador with a bare chest. Sometimes it works. Other times when the dancer is Kenny Mayne, it has the potential for starting another Spanish-American War. Similarly, the female contestants dress very sexy. It can be exciting, but then there was Cloris Leachman.
The three judges on the show are Carrie Ann Inaba, Len Goodman and Bruno Tonioli. Len is the tough judge with the obligatory British accent, sort of a well-dressed, Simon-Cowell type. Bruno makes wild gestures, stands on the desk, and, one night, will undoubtedly take flight in spasms of joy. Carrie Ann’s job is to soothe the ruffled feelings of contestants after Len and Bruno have shredded their confidence. Carrie Ann is someone who could find something redeeming in Kate Gosselin.
The public votes by phone and often directly contradicts the votes of the judges. It is necessary the public perform this function, otherwise there would be no suspense about why Kelly Osbourne or Bristol Palin would keep getting invited back.
The background of each of the contestants is told with great drama, as if they have overcome supreme challenges to become the mediocrities they are today. It may not be easy being green, but apparently it is even less easy being mediocre. We see glimpses of contestants crying or struggling during rehearsals. Last season, “Dirty Dancing” star Jennifer Grey had a succession of health problems, but valiantly overcame them to win. Right before her winning performance, she fought off a vicious attack of sinus drip. Some of the contestants become angry with their instructors, some have implied “love affairs” such as Erin Andrews and her instructor Maksim Chmerkovskiy, which ended coincidentally when the season ended.
I would like to see a spinoff where the losing contestants are sent to another planet to see if the change in gravitational pull helps them become better dancers. Maybe they can call it “Dancing on Mars.” SPR
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