Tag Archives: Cat Deeley

SYTYCD Top Ten Results Show. The Moe-ment An Ego Spun Out Of Control.

Have these words ever come out of your mouth: “Did he have to? Did he really have to?”

Sometimes people do things that you know they are going to do, even though, simultaneously, you know they are going to show that part of themselves that everyone suspected was there and no one wanted to see.

So it was last night, that Hell’s Teeth, a man who has singularly redeemed himself by bringing So You Thigh You Can Dance to television, a show that is everything its ugly sister, American Idol, is not, inspired the words: “Did he have to?”

For those of you who flip through your TIVO as fast as Sienna Miller flips through ineligible chaps, Nigel Lythgoe, producer and, er, producer, of two successful Fox shows, decided to surprise everyone by choreographing a routine for the five remaining eligible chaps.

Can I possibly sound fair when I suggest that the routine was as wooden as Pinocchio’s nose?

Possibly not. But can I sound accurate? I can only hope so.

At least Idol’s Randy Jackson limits himself to declaring that he played bass or fourteenth fiddle on the seminal works of Whitney Houston and Journey.

He doesn’t write the contestants a song and let them hope that it’s better than Simon and Garfunkel.

Nigel Lythgoe, on the other hand, not only choreographed (allegedly) a routine based on Five Guys named Moe, but he then ordered his, um hostess, Cat Deeley, to withhold this fact from the audience, lest the facts swayed their enthusiasm.

One assumes he was afraid that, should the information have come out in advance, the audience would have not been able to control their positive emotions throughout the dance.

Better to let them know afterwards, when, as it happened, the faces of Joshua and Will muttered the thought: “Jeez, I’m glad that’s over with.”

However, it was the face of Mr. Lythmoe that really clipped my duodenum with gherkin acid.

The pride of the insecure has not been more clearly seen since Julia Roberts gushed a fountain of self-vindication on receiving an Oscar.

Mr. Lythmoe was Julia Roberts and Sally Field put together. In mime.

The firmness that his lips adopted in order not to slide down his teeth and mouth and say: “I am. Really I am. I am as good as this lot. See,” was a feat in human engineering.

It seemed as if sitting next to renowned choreographers every week has preyed upon Mr. Lythmoe’s sense of self.

Yet if he really felt the need to dangle his credentials alongside his comments of dubious taste, then he should have decided to be a regular choreographic contributor (oh, God, no, that’s not his Plan, is it?).

Then everyone would have happily judged his abilities next to those of Tia, Maria, Napoleon, Josephine and the rest.

As it is, Mr. Lythmoe resembled nothing more than a man in a bar who grabs the karaoke mike near the end of the evening when all the customers are drunk beyond veracity.

The drunk’s reasoning is that it doesn’t matter whether his singing is comprised of deleterious atoms thrust into the torpid air because everyone will applaud at the end.

Most people would be satisfied with bringing one of the most honest, uplifting, artistic and joyous shows to television.

But no. Mr. Lythmoe had to find a way to say: “See, I can do this too.”

The saddest thing is that, despite his shoulders hunching up to support his head just in case it began to swell, all he proved was that perhaps it isn’t a wise idea to add moe strings to his boe.

The Pond thanks jnterwin for capturing a betoothed one being reined in.


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So You Think You Can Dance. Now I Get It.

When readers had encouraged me to watch So You Think You Can Dance, I was skeptical.

When I watched it for the first time, nothing changed.

It looked as if the man who bears no resemblance to the Tooth Fairy was making a lot of money on the backs and feet of America’s dancers.

Of course that must be true.

May I confess, however, to have been mesmerized by last Thursday’s Las Vegas auditions?

A chap whose body performed more contortions than a politician’s mouth took one look at what was required in these auditions and quit because he knew he would have been asked to perform in a pair and he didn’t want to adversely affect his partner’s chances.

Altruism from an artist? That’s like a free crown from a dentist.

Yet the longer the auditions went on, the more I began to realize that because the prize is, in the vast schemata of entertainment greed, relatively insignificant, So You Think You Can Dance exhibits a radical honesty.

The auditions occur with all the other competitors watching. You know when they think someone is good.

You know when they appreciate when someone has great artistry. They stand and applaud like a drunken (but knowledgeable) New York audience on a Saturday night.

There is something really quite soothing about the fact that the other competitors clearly influence the judges by the sheer decibellicosity of their applause.

For some reason that, as an innocent bysitter to this spectacle, I do not entirely grasp, there seemed to be more judges than Teethy, Tia and Maria.

I suspect the others represented different dance disciplines, but, for all I know, they could have been the sexual partners of Teethy, Tia and Maria.

In any case, they seemed to reflect an endearing honesty too. I could not imagine one of them canoodling with Paula Abdul.

Which makes me think this show is a deliberately constructed catharsis for Nigel Lythgoe.

While he goes along with the venality and twistiness of American Idol, he dons sackcloth and ashes made of silk in producing SYTYCD.

On American Idol, when the singers work together, that work means less than the cork on an empty bottle of wine.

In this peculiarly seductive dance show, the fruits of group performance mean everything. Both in the joy of the dance itself and in the prospects for the individual dancer.

Even Debbie Allen, a judge and former handmaiden of The Kids From Fame from the last century, had leave her judge’s leggings behind because one of her proteges made it through to the final twenty.

Does Randy Jackson have any proteges?

I must admit that I have even come to appreciate Cat Deeley’s understated warmth. Cat was brought up a couple of miles from me. But, whisper it now, she comes from the posh part of town.

This is not a girl who rose from the depths of poverty like some of the dancers.

This is not a girl who had to cut her own hair.

The only rollers in her neighborhood had Royce at the end of their names.

Yet she exudes a worldly air that doesn’t cloud the performances that are happening around her. On and off the stage.

This show is behaving like a stealth bomber dropping essential emotional supplies to my living room.

What happens in Vegas is not staying there.

This is weird.

The Pond thanks Marcin Wichary for his singular evocation of honesty.


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