No one with any common sense would allow this to go on for more than two minutes.
In black unitards and cropped shirts, former cheerleading rejects smack their thighs and stomachs with colorful foam tubes, awkwardly struggling to stay on beat with the percussion ensemble. If not previously ruined, these precious young lives are certainly doomed now. Flying about the stage in an apocalyptic haze, members of the dance team wave their arms emphatically to signal the End. Then they regroup into undulating puddles, piles of young women writhing on the floor. In a single dance number, something intended to be creative has spiraled into something tragic, embarrassing and perverse. I cover my face with the program. I’m not sure I can endure much more. This feels like watching someone make out with their uncle for an hour and a half.
The theater is filled with the sound of stomping and bagpipes.
The only thing that could save this performance would be to set one of the girls on fire. Is the meteor ever going to hit the earth and save us from the rest of this? Perhaps I missed part of the narrative. I spent the first half of the performance laughing hysterically to myself. During the latter half I was furiously taking notes.
What this routine needs is some unifying gesture or prop, an element to tie the choreography together.
One of my friends has the perfect solution: This performance needs stray cats. Three dozen stray cats milling about the stage, licking themselves and looking confused would provide a profoundly symbolic cue for the audience to breathe a sigh of relief. It has come to this. Thank goodness the Mayan apocalypse is upon us. In the meantime, what is up with the cropped shirt? No one looks good in that.
In black unitards and cropped shirts, former cheerleading rejects smack their thighs and stomachs with colorful foam tubes, awkwardly struggling to stay on beat with the percussion ensemble. If not previously ruined, these precious young lives are certainly doomed now. Flying about the stage in an apocalyptic haze, members of the dance team wave their arms emphatically to signal the End. Then they regroup into undulating puddles, piles of young women writhing on the floor. In a single dance number, something intended to be creative has spiraled into something tragic, embarrassing and perverse. I cover my face with the program. I’m not sure I can endure much more. This feels like watching someone make out with their uncle for an hour and a half.
The theater is filled with the sound of stomping and bagpipes.
The only thing that could save this performance would be to set one of the girls on fire. Is the meteor ever going to hit the earth and save us from the rest of this? Perhaps I missed part of the narrative. I spent the first half of the performance laughing hysterically to myself. During the latter half I was furiously taking notes.
What this routine needs is some unifying gesture or prop, an element to tie the choreography together.
One of my friends has the perfect solution: This performance needs stray cats. Three dozen stray cats milling about the stage, licking themselves and looking confused would provide a profoundly symbolic cue for the audience to breathe a sigh of relief. It has come to this. Thank goodness the Mayan apocalypse is upon us. In the meantime, what is up with the cropped shirt? No one looks good in that.
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