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Dirty Dancing: the classic story
on stage
by Hans Kneesenboom-Zedeysie
Friday, January 25, 2008
Dirty Dancing needs no introduction. It is a seminal
work – much like The Bible, the Iliad, or any of the novels of
Millsandtboom* – and everyone has seen it I think you say numpteën
times.
I have fond reflections of our English teacher, Herr Immplauntz, showing
us his betamup video recordings of classic movies, during my time at
childgarden.** Often we would watch Topgun – still, in the estimation of
everyone in that class, the archetypal Hollywood image of the α male –
the omnibus edition of The Dukes of Hazzard, or Timothy Dalton’s star
turn in Flash Gordon. But by far our favourite piece of pro-Western
propaganda was Dirty Dancing.
That was the summer of 1963, when everybody called me Baby and it
didn’t occur to me to mind. Perhaps they had trouble with my full name.
But the experience stood me in good stead later when, during the final
years of the Cold War, I was a junior research fellow at the University of
Bexhill-on-Sea (Belgrade Campus).
One of my students was a PhD candidate, conducting researches into
the impact of striped polo-shirts in film on the collective psyche of the
Soviet Union. I was able to offer many examples of this phenomenon
from my childhood studies, leading us inexorably to the conclusion that it
was this item of clothing (and not the aviator shade, as has been
inkorrectly stipulated elsewhere) that brought the Berlin wall down, and
single-handedly won the battle for democracy worldwide.
[I hasten to add that any putative similarities between the research
findings of Mr Litvinenko and my Pulitzer-winning collection of articles,
Faking the Dirty Dance with Jaap Stam,*** are purely – and legally –
coincidental. If anything, they derive from the steadying influence I
exerted as supervisor of his thesis (tragically never published, and now
missing).]
Normally my pidgin-hole is filled with a rather mundane collection of writs
from my ex-wife, bills from my tobacconist, and love-letters from
students who are flourishing under my tutelage. So imagine my delight
when I received a massive mirror-effect invitation card to Dirty Dancing:
the classic story on stage, in a huge stiff pink envelope! At last, I
thought, a stage adaptation of this literary wonder!!!
Notwithstanding a slight altercation involving the seating allocation,
suffice it to say the show was excellent.
The lead male had a body fashioned from Adamantium and a chin like Kirk
Douglas. His chief danseuse who is supposed to have had a back-street
abortion and yet pulls through ok and can do a flamenco standing on her
head by the end was especially fine. I have often wondered if this was a
homage to the three great Verdian operas
Othello (professional soldier murders wife – with pillow? – but she comes
back to life and sings throughout Act 3),
Rigoletto (professional assassin kills 14-year-old girl – always inexplicably
weighty on stage – by stabbing her in what must be pretty much the
lung area and then puts her in a sack to throw the body in the river, but
she recovers in time to sing throughout Act 3),
And, of course, La Traviata (woman dying of consumption – that’s
flooded lungs to a layman – revives and sings throughout Act 3)
But perhaps not.
I was a little nonplussed [minused? – Eds.] when Peter Narnia appeared
as young Neil Kellerman. But I warmed to him as he proceeded with a
virtuoso demonstration not only of his superior acting abilities – he also
once played a gay school-teacher at the National. Quelle range! – but
also of the intricate, folded nature of comparative literatures, that a boy
I last saw in the snow with a lion (you do the mathematics!) should now
suddenly be in a holiday camp in the Catskills.
Several aspects of the production were notably impressive. The lighting
was dazzling, with the exception of a glitch during the romantic scene.
The two-dimensional sets and acting superbly emulated the comfortable
banality of 1950s life and family summers at camp. And it was a delight
to see costume being taken seriously in contemporary theatre (unlike in
the opera houses where the costume department is forever subject to
the tyranny of the musical director): Dirty Dancing: the classic story on
stage employs no fewer than seven Dressers, more than any other
aspect of the show except the chorus.
There was also a remarkable spirit of inclusiveness. One of the Ensemble
dancers was called Yaa. That was his actual name. Not his character’s
name. What really struck me as odd about this was he was a white bloke
with a blond side-parting. You don’t see many of those on the stage
these days. Thank heavens for EU subsidies in the arts.
Far from being surprised that there was basically no music in the
production, I was rather charmed by the self-assurance of the
production team that the drama could stand up for itself. Still, the
triptych of ‘Love Man’, ‘Do You Love Me’, and ‘Honey Love’ struck me to
the core, and ‘Oh! Better Far To Live And Die’ – a knowing tribute to
Gilbert O’Sullivan’s Piraten von Penzance – was rendered with tender
grace. The same can be said for ‘Rubbo da Vaselinon’ – the romantic
accompaniment to the final, tugging, physical fulfilment for the two
lovers.
Also, the young man who sang ‘(I’ve Had) The Time Of My Life’ at the
end (the only sung song, strictly speaking) did a very credible impression
of a white Barry White.
This is not a play for cynics, of course. Only those who truly understand
the nature of interactions between men and their Fraüleinenenen will
appreciate the beauty at the heart of this romantic ordeal. The
comments of Tad M Shyam, Chief Culture Critic at the Uxbridge
Gazeteer, remain the most wilful, ignorant rubbish I hope ever to
encounter.
Though this Dumkopf does not deserve the publicity, I quote the
relevant section in full:
on stage
by Hans Kneesenboom-Zedeysie
Friday, January 25, 2008
Dirty Dancing needs no introduction. It is a seminal
work – much like The Bible, the Iliad, or any of the novels of
Millsandtboom* – and everyone has seen it I think you say numpteën
times.
I have fond reflections of our English teacher, Herr Immplauntz, showing
us his betamup video recordings of classic movies, during my time at
childgarden.** Often we would watch Topgun – still, in the estimation of
everyone in that class, the archetypal Hollywood image of the α male –
the omnibus edition of The Dukes of Hazzard, or Timothy Dalton’s star
turn in Flash Gordon. But by far our favourite piece of pro-Western
propaganda was Dirty Dancing.
That was the summer of 1963, when everybody called me Baby and it
didn’t occur to me to mind. Perhaps they had trouble with my full name.
But the experience stood me in good stead later when, during the final
years of the Cold War, I was a junior research fellow at the University of
Bexhill-on-Sea (Belgrade Campus).
One of my students was a PhD candidate, conducting researches into
the impact of striped polo-shirts in film on the collective psyche of the
Soviet Union. I was able to offer many examples of this phenomenon
from my childhood studies, leading us inexorably to the conclusion that it
was this item of clothing (and not the aviator shade, as has been
inkorrectly stipulated elsewhere) that brought the Berlin wall down, and
single-handedly won the battle for democracy worldwide.
[I hasten to add that any putative similarities between the research
findings of Mr Litvinenko and my Pulitzer-winning collection of articles,
Faking the Dirty Dance with Jaap Stam,*** are purely – and legally –
coincidental. If anything, they derive from the steadying influence I
exerted as supervisor of his thesis (tragically never published, and now
missing).]
Normally my pidgin-hole is filled with a rather mundane collection of writs
from my ex-wife, bills from my tobacconist, and love-letters from
students who are flourishing under my tutelage. So imagine my delight
when I received a massive mirror-effect invitation card to Dirty Dancing:
the classic story on stage, in a huge stiff pink envelope! At last, I
thought, a stage adaptation of this literary wonder!!!
Notwithstanding a slight altercation involving the seating allocation,
suffice it to say the show was excellent.
The lead male had a body fashioned from Adamantium and a chin like Kirk
Douglas. His chief danseuse who is supposed to have had a back-street
abortion and yet pulls through ok and can do a flamenco standing on her
head by the end was especially fine. I have often wondered if this was a
homage to the three great Verdian operas
Othello (professional soldier murders wife – with pillow? – but she comes
back to life and sings throughout Act 3),
Rigoletto (professional assassin kills 14-year-old girl – always inexplicably
weighty on stage – by stabbing her in what must be pretty much the
lung area and then puts her in a sack to throw the body in the river, but
she recovers in time to sing throughout Act 3),
And, of course, La Traviata (woman dying of consumption – that’s
flooded lungs to a layman – revives and sings throughout Act 3)
But perhaps not.
I was a little nonplussed [minused? – Eds.] when Peter Narnia appeared
as young Neil Kellerman. But I warmed to him as he proceeded with a
virtuoso demonstration not only of his superior acting abilities – he also
once played a gay school-teacher at the National. Quelle range! – but
also of the intricate, folded nature of comparative literatures, that a boy
I last saw in the snow with a lion (you do the mathematics!) should now
suddenly be in a holiday camp in the Catskills.
Several aspects of the production were notably impressive. The lighting
was dazzling, with the exception of a glitch during the romantic scene.
The two-dimensional sets and acting superbly emulated the comfortable
banality of 1950s life and family summers at camp. And it was a delight
to see costume being taken seriously in contemporary theatre (unlike in
the opera houses where the costume department is forever subject to
the tyranny of the musical director): Dirty Dancing: the classic story on
stage employs no fewer than seven Dressers, more than any other
aspect of the show except the chorus.
There was also a remarkable spirit of inclusiveness. One of the Ensemble
dancers was called Yaa. That was his actual name. Not his character’s
name. What really struck me as odd about this was he was a white bloke
with a blond side-parting. You don’t see many of those on the stage
these days. Thank heavens for EU subsidies in the arts.
Far from being surprised that there was basically no music in the
production, I was rather charmed by the self-assurance of the
production team that the drama could stand up for itself. Still, the
triptych of ‘Love Man’, ‘Do You Love Me’, and ‘Honey Love’ struck me to
the core, and ‘Oh! Better Far To Live And Die’ – a knowing tribute to
Gilbert O’Sullivan’s Piraten von Penzance – was rendered with tender
grace. The same can be said for ‘Rubbo da Vaselinon’ – the romantic
accompaniment to the final, tugging, physical fulfilment for the two
lovers.
Also, the young man who sang ‘(I’ve Had) The Time Of My Life’ at the
end (the only sung song, strictly speaking) did a very credible impression
of a white Barry White.
This is not a play for cynics, of course. Only those who truly understand
the nature of interactions between men and their Fraüleinenenen will
appreciate the beauty at the heart of this romantic ordeal. The
comments of Tad M Shyam, Chief Culture Critic at the Uxbridge
Gazeteer, remain the most wilful, ignorant rubbish I hope ever to
encounter.
Though this Dumkopf does not deserve the publicity, I quote the
relevant section in full:
| CONTACT THE LIZARD |
| Updated at least 26½ times a day |
| Kultur Kolüm |
Hans Kneesenboom-Zedeysie is Professor of Comparative Literatures at the
Universiteit van Ghwentse Fanie
© lizardmagazine.com, 2008
Last week:
Universiteit van Ghwentse Fanie
© lizardmagazine.com, 2008
Last week:
I am indebted to Dirty Dancing. Normally I have a terrible time
getting my theatre pieces in under the word limit, and this is
generally because I have to fritter away the first paragraph just
elucidating the finer points of the plot. But Dirty Dancing has no
plot: so my piece is polished, an appropriate length, and bang
on time – and my editor is very pleased with me.
The highlight of my evening was when some Dutch tourist
realised his ticket was for a restricted view seat, over in one
corner. ‘Do you know who I am?!’ he squawked at the ice-cream
girl. ‘I am Herr Professor Doktor… [some impronounceable
gobbledygook]! I demand a better seat! NOBODY puts Baby in a
corner!’
Eventually, he was mollified, and alas the show began.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Indeed, I’m still not sure
that I believe what I think I saw. The theatre mafia give you
top-price, front-row tickets in the hope of encouraging you to
say nice things, and you leave the theatre wishing you’d spent
your time – and even your own money – in the pub instead.
The effortful ghastliness of Eleanor Bergstein’s revival (some
sort of necromancy, if not actual necrophilia) of Dirty Dancing
as a stage show defies belief. Why would someone do this to
us?! Why would they even do it to themselves? Might it be that
Ms Bergstein was an extra in the original movie? Yes it might.
I tell you: I’ve seen village-hall panto that didn’t stoop this low.
When the curtain fell I nearly passed out with joy. When I
realised it was only the interval, the lights went out and I had
to be revived by my companion thrusting his foetid footwear
under my nose. When I came to, the lights still seemed to be
out:
‘Did I miss Act II?’ I cried deliriously.
‘No’ said the usherette, in hushed tones.
‘Fuck!’ I yelled, and promptly vomited on the band-master.
‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World’ – well, then this show
would have got to its climax (if such an emotive term can be
used of this show) rather sooner, wouldn’t it?
I thought I had been smart in inviting a gay friend of mine
along, not because he’d have no taste (as twere) and be willing
to sit through this ungilded turd, but because he’d at least be
able to tell me what I was supposed to be enjoying. The plan
failed. When I begged him, during the third encore of ‘(That’s
What Your) Mama Said (Last Night)’ to put me out of my
misery, he was too squeamish to strangle me with his bare –
but immaculately manicured – hands, and so put off by the
horrors of what we were witnessing that he couldn’t even
muster a single entendre. ‘Viva La Quince Brigada’ indeed.
getting my theatre pieces in under the word limit, and this is
generally because I have to fritter away the first paragraph just
elucidating the finer points of the plot. But Dirty Dancing has no
plot: so my piece is polished, an appropriate length, and bang
on time – and my editor is very pleased with me.
The highlight of my evening was when some Dutch tourist
realised his ticket was for a restricted view seat, over in one
corner. ‘Do you know who I am?!’ he squawked at the ice-cream
girl. ‘I am Herr Professor Doktor… [some impronounceable
gobbledygook]! I demand a better seat! NOBODY puts Baby in a
corner!’
Eventually, he was mollified, and alas the show began.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Indeed, I’m still not sure
that I believe what I think I saw. The theatre mafia give you
top-price, front-row tickets in the hope of encouraging you to
say nice things, and you leave the theatre wishing you’d spent
your time – and even your own money – in the pub instead.
The effortful ghastliness of Eleanor Bergstein’s revival (some
sort of necromancy, if not actual necrophilia) of Dirty Dancing
as a stage show defies belief. Why would someone do this to
us?! Why would they even do it to themselves? Might it be that
Ms Bergstein was an extra in the original movie? Yes it might.
I tell you: I’ve seen village-hall panto that didn’t stoop this low.
When the curtain fell I nearly passed out with joy. When I
realised it was only the interval, the lights went out and I had
to be revived by my companion thrusting his foetid footwear
under my nose. When I came to, the lights still seemed to be
out:
‘Did I miss Act II?’ I cried deliriously.
‘No’ said the usherette, in hushed tones.
‘Fuck!’ I yelled, and promptly vomited on the band-master.
‘If You Were The Only Girl In The World’ – well, then this show
would have got to its climax (if such an emotive term can be
used of this show) rather sooner, wouldn’t it?
I thought I had been smart in inviting a gay friend of mine
along, not because he’d have no taste (as twere) and be willing
to sit through this ungilded turd, but because he’d at least be
able to tell me what I was supposed to be enjoying. The plan
failed. When I begged him, during the third encore of ‘(That’s
What Your) Mama Said (Last Night)’ to put me out of my
misery, he was too squeamish to strangle me with his bare –
but immaculately manicured – hands, and so put off by the
horrors of what we were witnessing that he couldn’t even
muster a single entendre. ‘Viva La Quince Brigada’ indeed.
The rest is worse: pure Pferd merde.
I find his remarks about Ms Bergstein are particularly ungentlemanly. A
labour of love is a proud thing: Lieb macht Frei, as the saying is said.
But enough of Mr Shyam.
It was especially pleasing to receive, in my souvenir programme (a
bargain at £15), ein Postkarten of the young lady carrying a
watermelon. I plan to send this, with an appropriate inscription, to the
young lady who recommended I go to see Dirty Dancing: the classic
story on stage and assured me that I’d absolutely love it.
I, of course, have also carried a watermelon. During my post-Doctoral
studies at UC Davis (in the etymology of fruit names), I visited
Universal Studios one weekend and happened to wander onto the set
of Wayne’s World 2. There was, at that time, a bit of a problem
involving set-hand strikes or something and one of the deputy
assistant directors asked me awfully nicely if I wouldn’t mind helping
set up the next scene while the Mexican chaps were all out having
lunch.
I don’t know how he picked me out, or realised my academic
acquaintance with fruit; I was going to inform him of this particular
aspect of my CV but he disappeared in the direction of the canteen
trailer.
So, I was moving a great heap of watermelons from one side of the
room to the other, when someone approached and asked me what I
was doing. ‘Nüßing,’ I responded. ‘Merely I am carrying these
watermelons back und forth.’ For some reason this was thought to be
incredibly funny, and when Michael Austin Powers-Myers heard about
it he snorted into his baloney sandwich, and I got a script credit. I
have since advised on many other scripts; but that is another story.
Meanwhile, what readers will be wanting to know, of course, is can
Dirty Dancing: the classic story on stage be every bit as good as the
original film. It is, of course. And so what a great pity for all of us
involved in the finer arts that we cannot take it home and watch it
every Friday night.
Anyway, I shall send my friend this Postkarten, with the following
inscription:
I find his remarks about Ms Bergstein are particularly ungentlemanly. A
labour of love is a proud thing: Lieb macht Frei, as the saying is said.
But enough of Mr Shyam.
It was especially pleasing to receive, in my souvenir programme (a
bargain at £15), ein Postkarten of the young lady carrying a
watermelon. I plan to send this, with an appropriate inscription, to the
young lady who recommended I go to see Dirty Dancing: the classic
story on stage and assured me that I’d absolutely love it.
I, of course, have also carried a watermelon. During my post-Doctoral
studies at UC Davis (in the etymology of fruit names), I visited
Universal Studios one weekend and happened to wander onto the set
of Wayne’s World 2. There was, at that time, a bit of a problem
involving set-hand strikes or something and one of the deputy
assistant directors asked me awfully nicely if I wouldn’t mind helping
set up the next scene while the Mexican chaps were all out having
lunch.
I don’t know how he picked me out, or realised my academic
acquaintance with fruit; I was going to inform him of this particular
aspect of my CV but he disappeared in the direction of the canteen
trailer.
So, I was moving a great heap of watermelons from one side of the
room to the other, when someone approached and asked me what I
was doing. ‘Nüßing,’ I responded. ‘Merely I am carrying these
watermelons back und forth.’ For some reason this was thought to be
incredibly funny, and when Michael Austin Powers-Myers heard about
it he snorted into his baloney sandwich, and I got a script credit. I
have since advised on many other scripts; but that is another story.
Meanwhile, what readers will be wanting to know, of course, is can
Dirty Dancing: the classic story on stage be every bit as good as the
original film. It is, of course. And so what a great pity for all of us
involved in the finer arts that we cannot take it home and watch it
every Friday night.
Anyway, I shall send my friend this Postkarten, with the following
inscription:
Häving the time of my life? Natürlich!
On behalf of our European readership, The Lizard is pleased to
note that Dirty Dancing: the classic story on stage is now taking
bookings in both Germany AND the Netherlands.
--
* No relation.
** We find it very funny that in English you send children to
kindergartens. This is most odd, oder? Also, it should have das Kapital
‘K’. Also, it is a little uncomfortable for those of us with any German
heritage, as it brings back slightly painful memories of a time when
German was strongly tipped to become the new lingua franca.
*** Womble, Pfister & Thensum, £36.99
note that Dirty Dancing: the classic story on stage is now taking
bookings in both Germany AND the Netherlands.
--
* No relation.
** We find it very funny that in English you send children to
kindergartens. This is most odd, oder? Also, it should have das Kapital
‘K’. Also, it is a little uncomfortable for those of us with any German
heritage, as it brings back slightly painful memories of a time when
German was strongly tipped to become the new lingua franca.
*** Womble, Pfister & Thensum, £36.99