Tag Archives: Will

SYTYCD Final Eight Shock. Don’t Blame Calista Flockhart’s Mother.

And so we live through the pain again.

The pain of allowing real people out there to break hearts as they break wind. With no thought as to who might laugh, who might cry and who might die of asphyxiation.

On this week’s So You Thigh You Can Dance, justice and injustice held hands and stroked each other like a policeman and a drug dealer in an especially tense French thriller.

Comfort is lovely. But Comfort was done. Just as she was done before. Would Kherington have done any better? Who can say? Yet few could argue that the viewers’ eyes did not take a vacation in Bermuda.

However, with the chaps, it would be reasonable to say (and we’re not necessarily here to be reasonable) that the viewers may have listened to the Pond a little too literally.

Yes, I asked all y’all to vote with your hearts. This did not mean that you were supposed to shut your eyelids while your eyes rolled down your bodies, along the floor, out to the patio to roll around on your hammock.

As I believe I mentioned when I first wafted helplessly into the pheromones of this show, Will was trying so hard to be perfect that he was failing to connect with the audience.

What was striking is that he really didn’t connect with either of his partners over the last two weeks.

Somehow, half way through each performance, he moved his eyes away in order, seemingly, to focus on the perfect arc his right arm was describing, almost as if that arm held such descriptive awe that it really was the ghost of Tim Russert, or the reincarnation of Lenny Bruce.

Yet here was the injustice.

Will’s James Brown solo showed all the wit, verve and abandon that his other dances simply didn’t.

If the solos are there to be judged, and if the ultimate aim is to find the best single dancer, then Will did not deserve to be extradited.

Mark, Joshua and Twitch were all fortunate.

And Calista Flockhart’s mom, who joined a Tia-less Maria and a tirelessly witless Teethy on the judging panel, was sharply honest in trying to point that out.

Twitch really didn’t have to do a whole lot of dancing in Tia’s quite fabulous dramatization of the Bobbit relationship. He performed it well. He danced very little.

But he emoted far too much, perhaps, when he discovered he might be in the bottom two. Turning away from the camera and squatting like an unhappy rabbit seemed just a little unnecessary. It was, however, pleasantly honest.

Mark was perhaps even more fortunate to get away with his misfortune. Not only was he asked to partner Comfort, but he then frantically tried to keep up with Napoleon and Josephine’s schoolboy routine and then dance something that may have been a foxtrot. Or a deertrot. Or a squirreltrot.

Mark, I am suspecting, has endeared himself sufficiently to those out there to have the largest remaining fan base. Perhaps he will suddenly have the blind fortune to draw Katee next week. That might make for a very interesting and, perhaps, expository evening.

And what of Joshua? Perhaps it is my naivete, but, again, his strength seemed to be his strength. And his slight weakness appeared to be his dancing. He seemed at times to be finding it hard to match Chelsie’s precision and verve. It was almost as if he was putting in so much effort that his body was trying too hard.

If that is not a tautologous tautology.

Whatever one might think of this show, and I am clinging to my joy at its essential honesty, there is still so much genuine talent remaining that one can only hope the performers have sufficient energy remaining to deliver something truly inspiring in the two weeks that remain.

Personally, I would very much like to see, at the very minimum, the return of Lil’C and Calista Flockhart’s mom.

Both could guide the viewers just enough to prevent further injustices being rained down on our fragile emotions.

Life is hard and the world is rough.

But if you want to boogie, children, you have to get tough.

I just made that up.

The Pond thanks Guylaine2007 for capturing a dog named Boogie.

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SYTYCD July 17. A simmering sense of tragedy.

Are we all in favor of democracy now?

We, the people. Weed the people, perhaps.

As Gev and Kherington wafted off into the night with their ever tightening eyes and bottoms squeezing their disappointment shut, can one really believe that the So You Thigh You Can Dance voters chose well?

Perhaps the most obvious question is: “If Comfort was the worst of the girls last week, what changed?”

Here’s a couple of things.

One, the people voted. And there has never been much of a history of singing and dancing reality show voters casting their text messages for pretty girls.

Forgive me for sounding a little on the cynical side, but I suspect the majority of the voters are women slightly less pretty than, say, Kherington. They are perhaps slightly more likely to cast aspersions in her direction rather than votes.

Secondly, may I raise the subject of the choreography just for a few breaths?

There exists a slightly sycophantic tendency on the part of Hell’s Teeth, Tia and Maria to begin their critiques by praising the choreography. This is often used as the precursor to declarations of the dancers’ shortcomings.

However, Mark and Kherington’s jazz, er, reggae, er, what the hell was that, routine enjoyed the choreography of the Idea-Free Zone.

Mark and Kherington wafted their way through as if impersonating blind people in a black-walled room.

It was almost as if they thought if they kept on going, somewhere, in some tiny corner of the stage, they would find the meaning of their meanderings.

They didn’t.

To precede that by slipping them the Two Step was a particular form of cruelty not dissimilar to a contractor accidentally burning down your house and then suing you for his distress.

While the viewers forgave Mark because he possesses dangly bits and is a fine performer, Kherington was punished for having perfectly-sculpted eyebrows and a midfielder’s thighs.

Comfort and Twitch’s smooth waltz was about as smooth as a John McCain joke.

Poor Twitch was forced to take the pitter-patter steps of a Russian square dancer as he circled around an achingly effortful Comfort.

Frankly, they both looked as out of place and time as each other.

Still, there were enough wonders to make Wednesday feel like the apogee of the week rather than its saggy middle.

Joshua and Courtney proved that their ability to entertain and, frankly, lift was not confined to their previous partnerships.

Their hip hop was vibrant enough to make even the most spuddish couch potato’s hips sense movement.

Will and Katee’s pas de deux and Broadway Boat Dance were exercises in marvelous precision, but it just so happened that neither routine really asked them to display togetherness.

Which is not the same as synchronization.

I leave poor Gev until last. Because the sad thing is that his solo was unquestionably the most perspired and inspired of the night.

And the oddity of this competition is that one winner is chosen, yet judgments are made on paired performances.

Chelsie unwittingly highlighted Gev’s technical infelicities. Yet their contemporary routine was the truest of the night.

Chelsie and Gev showed a far greater ability to express connection while physically apart then, say, Will and Katee.

Yet Gev was jettisoned for being outjived by Chelsie and outprettied by the other gentlemen.

This despite the fact that Lil’C brought a sharp sensitivity and reasoning to the judging process, to the degree that a Tia-less Maria and Hell’s Teeth almost seemed subdued.

But let us end with a message to the nation.

Oh, America, please let your heart lead your eyes next week.

Because this week, it was the other way around.

The Pond thanks the futuristics for reminding us about dancing joy.




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SYTYCD Top Ten. The pairings begin to leak.

Oh, no.

Some site somewhere (The Pond doesn’t do links. It affects the purity of the performance here) has revealed that Courtney and Joshua will be together for this week’s So You Thigh You Can Dance.

I can imagine Gev’s rather wide pants filling with tears at this very moment.

Will it be possible for him to find another girl like Courtney? Of course it won’t.

Shall we, just for the fun of it, try and guess what the other pairings will be?

If this were American Idol, I would pretend to know, because it was always so much fun to hear the outrage of outhouse-dwellers who were aghast that, say, David Archuleta would be singing Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle.”

I cannot do this to the loyal and honest SYTYCD audience.

Ergo, let us try and imagine, because Gev is such a genuine chap, the worst possible scenarios for the other chaps.

Well, now that Jessica is out through injury, Will, that most uptight of professionals, surely fears Comfort.

Will and Comfort might have all the makings of Will and Grace beneath the sheets.

The man with the most training coupled with the girl with none at all. And a girl whose confidence must have been squashed like a tomato in a bolognese with her elimination last week.

I can hear the rehearsal screams from hundreds of miles away.

What might Twitch be fearing the most? Perhaps a partnership with Chelsie. Somehow, I cannot see their energies quite melding. Twitch, I imagine, is secretly hankering after Katee (in a dancing sense).

Mark seems to be the one with the least to fear- unless he is paired with Comfort. Kherington and Katee are both vintage actresses and would surely complement him like a fridge complements white wine.

And Gev, well, you know he must be a distraught little Clyde at losing his Bonnie. With luck like that, I am imagining it will actually be Gev and Comfort.

I am not trying to demean Comfort’s abilities in any way. But she is the weakest of the girls.

And sometimes, well, sometimes you might imagine producers getting up to their old Idolesque tricks.

So here are my utterly wild and ridiculous guesses:

Gev and Comfort. Mark and Katee. Will and Kherington. And Twitch and Chelsie.

I could be wrong. And I trust you will not besmirch me if I am.

The Pond would like to thank Prince Roy for his image of a Taiwan Lottery Dream Sheet. Whatever that is.

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SYTYCD July 10. The strangeness only gets stranger.

I never thought this was possible.

But So You Thigh You Can Dance is managing to reach heights that Nigel Lythgoe’s dentist can only dream of.

This week’s two shows were controversial because, to my disbelieving, bedazzled eyes, there was no controversy.

The weakest links were told goodbye and the strongest, most inspiring performers were given accolades that they actually deserved.

It made you believe in truth, justice and the immediate immolation of American Idol.

Gev and his little pixie vixen, Courtney, for example, entertained as if they were on the Titanic and had already heard that it didn’t handle icebergs too well.

Entertainment truly is about giving of yourself and concentrating your mind’s emotions on those things that uplift people with mundane existences.

You know, affix a permanent image of Kirstie Alley in your mind and then try and find a way to make her heart leap and her body, at the very least, jiggle with joy.

I defy anyone alive not to be moved to simultaneous admiration and giggles at the sight of these two leading the audience a merry dance.

Joshua and Katee, the Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan of the proceedings, took on an Indian routine that put Mike Myers and artists of even greater pretension to shame.

Their beguilingly honest and joyous performance made you want to shoot over to your Netflix queue and slide Monsoon Wedding, one of the finest movies ever made, to the very top.

Mark and Chelsie continued to defy gravity and mediocrity by confronting both in an Ultimate Dancing Brawl.

Kherington and Twitch perhaps didn’t have their finest six or seven minutes. But when asked to perform solo for their lives, they vaulted their souls onto the stage as if to say: “Still got it, you know.”

Which leaves the bottom three and a half.

Really, can anyone argue with the fact that Comfort was uncomfortable and Thayne was, at best, cornered into submission? Perhaps he didn’t have the benefit of the best partners, but the smiling really did overwhelm any character he was asked to play.

Imagine Marlon Brando smiling during the Godfather.

I fear Thayne Brando would have done.

What of Jessica?

Tia, Maria and Teethy have undermined her confidence by continuing to tell her she’s not as good as Will.

Yet they have failed to highlight Will’s Achilles Ballet Slipper.

He so wants to be so perfect that he sometimes forgets how to be real.

Real people like us still prefer to watch Mark or Pixie Vixen because they bring new character to the floor and sweep it past our skepticism.

Will is in danger of letting his perfect lines dominate his ability to move. In the emotional sense.

Jessica’s problem is not so much that she struggles occasionally. It is that the struggle is written in bold capitals on her face.

Personally, I am struggling with the fact that this exhaustingly honest show is becoming like a burglar who, instead of creeping into your house in the middle of the night, knocks politely on your door and asks if he can pilfer your plasma.

Next week, it will be the Top Ten. I suppose I will be forced to take sides, to favor one performer over another.

Perhaps this will be not so bad, as, despite Maria’s shrieks, Hell’s Teeth’s beak and Tia’s slightly dazed vocal delivery every week, So You Thigh You Can Dance seems to favor the right result over the cheap trick.

It can’t possibly last, can it?

The Pond thanks antmoose for his extraordinary portrait of honesty.

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SYTYCD July 3. America loses its sight.

I watched the performances and then the results one after the other.

So You Thigh You Can Dance had its first truly difficult moment.

A case of shoulder prejudice.

That nice, tall, blonde girl should never have been in the bottom three.

She had a face like Uma Thurman and was significantly better proportioned.

(I once stood next to Uma in the bar at the Baltazar and her torso was as long as the Mississippi. While her legs were shorter than a coke-addict’s attention span.)

Kourtni Lind was, I think, her name.

And she was rather broad across the clavicles.

Apparently America was not fond of this.

Hell’s Teeth was clearly not happy, as he would have preferred to deport the rather dull Comfort, whose solo resembled a Thursday Tourette’s Night in an Indiana bar.

Yet he was overruled by Napoleon and Josephine, expressing solidarity with a fellow hop-hipper.

Maria sided with them.

May I say, as an insanely late arrival to these mesmerizing proceedings, that I am finding Maria’s voice slightly less soothing than a power drill being slipped into my right nostril.

Her high-pitched, maximum-decibeled screech would not only break the panes of Notre Dame Cathedral.

It is also powerful enough to sever the heads of small animals.

I am sure that Toyota could design a car powered by this polluting energy source.

However, I am dwelling in the wrong wigwam by even mentioning things negative.

The dancers again provided more inspiration in this one week than all of the American Idol contestants in the last seven years.

There was that Chelsie (why must they all spell their names like, well, masseuses?) girl, a ballroom dancer allegedly, inspiring the most exalted emotions while performing a routine entirely removed from her own metier.

To think that Sanjaya Malakar, as metierless as any supposed artist on the Idol show, managed to take Stevie Wonder and create an algae pudding out of his music.

He still made the Top Ten.

His equivalent in So You Thigh You Can Dance would be scratched from the auditions like a wayward zit on the bottom of a supermodel.

If you consider that Comfort and Thane, the least inspiring of the remaining dancers, still have more talent than any Idoler other than Jennifer Hudson, then you might ask yourself why you have allowed yourself to watch the Idol Torment in such numbers.

Rubbernecking, perhaps.

But rubbernecking is not theater.

Twitch, Mark, Courtney Shortney, Gev, Kherington, Will, Katee and Joshua all managed, in one show, to do something that lifted both the spirits and, albeit temporarily, the quality of something that masquerades as art on the flat screen.

I remain fascinated by how these temporary marriages the producers have created will develop.

How is it that dancers can instinctively give to each other, often making each other better in the process, while singers in the supposedly equivalent show contrive to surround each other with nothing more than the sad niff of mediocrity?

The world is not a fair place.

If it were, America’s iPods would be full of Joshua, Will and Kherington, rather than the beige bilge provided by the Whites and Archuletas that fog our ears and just very slightly disturb our digestive systems.

The Pond thanks kalandrakas for reminding us of the power of harmony.

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SYTYCD. For the last eighteen, the thigh’s the limit.

So I have tried to learn some of the finer points of So You Think You Can Dance.

It appears to be very difficult for dancers paired with God Knows Who and having to perform God Knows What.

And then to be judged by Tia, Maria and God Knows Why.

There seems little favor given for the performances of the week before, though, if I am not entirely mistaken, I detected a touch of the splits along sexual lines on the subject of the delightfully named Kherington.

This girl appears to have many years ahead of her before she can enter a pub, yet she combines an inviting, unprotectedly attractive face with thighs that could support the Leaning Tower of Pisa for many years.

Hell’s Teeth appears to appreciate that. Tia and Maria appear to loathe it with the venom of a pregnant rattlesnake.

Once Kherington performed her emotional waltz with perhaps the first waltzer in history named Twitch, it was hard for me to concentrate on any other part of any dancer’s anatomy than his or her thighs.

Kherington has apparently played a lot of soccer. I suspect she was particularly good in dead ball situations.

In fact, it is clear that all of these people’s thighs could have single-leggedly brought down the Berlin Wall.

So much of their balance and lifting ability depends on the foundation that is their quadricept and hamstring that sometimes I fear that we will suddenly see cracks develop in a dancer’s legs, as if an earthquake has rumbled halfway through a rumba.

Each dancer seems to accept the manifest rumbling inequity of the competition with all the fortitude reflective of real life. Some dances bring out the best in them. Some dancer make them look, as Chris did krumping, like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

Of course I have my favorites. None of them white boys.

Will and Joshua appear to have the most originality amongst the men.

Amongst the girls, well, did I mention Kherington’s thighs, I mean, her lines?

The biggest problem some of the girls appear to have to whether to let their energy levels exceed those of their more tentative and depth-challenged male partners.

Those that don’t, get penalized. Those that do, risk accusations of excessive individualism.

How convenient that the judges eliminated one whole pair.

This leaves each existing pair having already got used to their partner’s chips-inflamed breath and armpits sweatier than a rookie giving the Pope a haircut with garden shears.

I am truly beginning to be mesmerized by So You Thigh You Can Dance.

The Pond thanks rightee for finding a physical expression of a physical miracle.

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