Dancing With The Stars New Zealand can only be described as a good night out at the Cosmopolitan Club, the proviso being that you’ve pre-loaded at home with a few hundred chardonnays and one Snax topped with tasty cheese.
We’re watching it though, or thinking about it. Those of us who piously announce they are refusing to engage with it sit—furious they said this publicly—with the TV set tuned to something much more important at 7.30, such as a documentary on The Eagles or pretending to watch the one about the Vietnam War.
Meanwhile, on TV3, 12 celebrities, ostensibly chosen because of their strong desire to raise money for charidee, strap on man-made fibres and Cuban heels and are rendered barely able to walk in a straight line let alone dance, for the next 10 weeks.
Let that sink in. Ten weeks is a school term. At the end of one school term, you will emerge from this fog of dancing. You won’t recognise your children any longer, and you’ll be tripping over the stack of Woman’s Day magazines that you hate-bought so you could read the exclusive inside story about how Zac has real feelings, and how David Seymour never gave up hope that his dance partner would finally say yes to a date.
In essence the premise of the show does work. That’s because there’s at least one or two half-decent personalities who viewers probably want to see do well, if not win.
And then there’s David Seymour. Seymour performed his first dance last night. My Sharona is a good song. Seymour emerged from the mists of time dressed “rocker styles”. Cut-away to the dressing room:
Just make me look cool. I missed my chance at Grammar. What does cool look like and make me that
There was one sequence where he danced alone. His body blurred into what looked like one of the more disturbing Francis Bacon portraits; a wash of purple surrounding a maniacally enthusiastic face.
He did ok. What can we expect from ACT?
Another character called Shav danced the previous night. People on Twitter were saying things like “You go girl” and “Shav is owning this show”. With names like Suzy, Shav, Robert and David, this show sounded increasingly like the workplace function of a small-to-medium accounting firm in Lower Hutt.
The exception was of course Marama Fox. Fox could actually dance. She can dance, and this is because she doesn’t care what people think of her.
Other contestants were wound up, rigor mortis styles. They were so stiff that the judges were really needing to dig deep for the good comments. One judge got around the poor dancing prowess of Zac Franich by sexually harassing him in front of the nation.
Over to the judges, we had the three main archetypes of humanity: the bitchy one, the voice of reason and the cool dad (who modelled in Milan for a few months once).
Dai Henwood is now just ringing it in and gutted he can’t say words like “fuckin’ ” and “cock”.
Who will go home first? Predictably it won’t be Suzy Cato. She really pulled out the big guns last night, mainly by having her children join her at the end. Ain’t no one going to vote her off.
David Seymour won’t last. People can’t take much more of this guy and his surrealist notions and outlook.
The text machine will decide, and New Zealand will, once again select the innocuous, honest broker from the bank of smiles, because the text machine has an unlimited text add-on and a penchant for Jude Dobson.
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