A rant: Superstars of Dance

I’m a dancer, have been since I was 3. Anytime there’s any sort of dance show on, I will watch it. Currently I’m both repelled and intrigued by “Superstars of Dance”. However …

I wish they would give more history – what to look for. What characterizes the traditional dance form for that country? The audience who has never seen Indian or African dance – what should they look for? And, most importantly, how the HELL are they judging? On technique? Choreography? What? In ballroom competitions, at least the televised ones, they give you pointers on what to look for, and what they judge on. (Oh god, did I just say something positive about ballroom competitions? I think I may be losing my mind.)

Monday nights, the girls and I sit around and IM our ever-so-insightful thoughts on the show to each other. Here’s tonight’s apoplexy:

What the hell, Michael Flatley? You are from Chicago! CH-I-CA-GO. (That’s in Illinois, you know – America. Just in case you forgot.) Where did you pick up an Irish accent? The west side? The east? It’s a bad accent, at that. Drop it already. Though you are partially the one who helped bring Irish Dance back into focus, but you are also the one that (horrifically) brought arms as well. Arms! Just like there is no crying in baseball, there are no arms in Irish Dance.

I hate you.

And camera person? This is a dance show. D-A-N-C-E. Which implies choreography, footwork, patterns, neat stuff having to do with the body. How can I see any of that when you do close-ups on faces? Or when you follow one person as they leave stage, completely ignoring the rest of the troupe still dancing?

Lick me where I pee.

South African judge (I refuse to allow you your name, you are pompous and don’t deserve it). Oh, Jesus’ balls. Are you the undiscovered love child of Prince and Lou Diamond Phillips? Stop trying to impress the Australian judge. Smarmy git.

Piss off.

Ireland please, for the love of all that’s holy, just stop with the arms. Do I need to channel Susan Powter? “Stop the insanity!” This is all just skips, with some rallies thrown in for sound. (Which I think they are dubbing in.) Arms? Again? Oh, look! A leap. Just one though. And when did chaînés turns come into this? Bah! And you’re the world champions? I’ve seen better dancing in the 7 year old category at my local feis.

Póg ma thoin.

Australian judge – I love you for giving Ireland a lower score. I still think you’re a harpy though. But South Africa? Stop trying to impress her. We all know you are just leading her on.

Russian ballerina – you have the crazy eyes, but oh so beautiful feet (and stop dropping your damn left elbow during your turns).

America, America … don’t get me wrong, I love popping as much as the next person, but this is just … double-jointedness. Throw in something else. Anything else, please. Ohhh, you can contort your chest, but again – not dance. (Talent, yes.) Your face while “dancing” continually looks like you are trying not to shit your pants.

And for a commercial break - Billy Mays. My night is now officially in the 7th circle of hell. All that’s needed is the ShamWOW! guy to make an appearance.

Oh Africa! Gorgeous dancing men. I will withhold my snark. Besides, I can’t type through drool. (I’m a pig.) And how could that dance score LOWER than the popper? Pfft.

Argentina – your judge is so very sweet. How did she ever make it in the dance world? Is there a hidden Lydia Grant in there (Debbie Allen’s character from “Fame”)? I keep expecting Miss Tango’s boobs to pop out of that dress, which makes it very hard to concentrate on the actual dance. (Psst, cameraguy? Stop showing her tits!)

India – I love all things Bollywood. Gorgeous, although simple. I’d love to learn more about/how to do traditional Indian dance, but I might feel like an imposter. Maybe if I dipped myself in henna …

Australia – I’m sad that I couldn’t see your first group performance (damn you, cameraman!) But if the solo was indicative, holy schmit Dingoman! His feet! If you score lower than Poppingboy, I will have to shake my fist at the television. He can father my children, or at least practice the art of procreation with me. We could populate the world with freakish arches! (South Africa judge can suck it with his “holier-than-thou” commentary.)

The popper won over Australia? I poop on you judges!

I can’t watch anymore. I think I need a drink. Maybe Billy Mays will mix me a concoction with some Oxi-Clean thrown in for flavor. At least it will clean out my brain. And possibly the bad taste in my mouth.

Screw it, maybe it will just kill me so that I won’t tune in next week.