DANCING for your supper is an increasingly popular diet plan among celebrities who feel starved of public affection. Until recently, a showbiz luminary suffering from limelight deficiency would hire a PR firm to conduct a campaign of profile raising or image enhancement. These days, however, a whirl on the TV dance floor is seen as the most efficient launching pad for a comeback or a direction change.
Participants in these choreographed makeovers are commended for their adventurousness, but few journey far from their comfort zones. The physical act of dancing might be a stretch for the average celeb, but the poses and delusions of the archetypal dancer are second nature. In their native habitats, most broadcasters, performers and showpeople are indistinguishable from prima ballerinas: temperamental, narcissistic and touchier than a sprained ankle.
Yet, by shaking a leg and chancing their arm on a dance show, the gyrating notables hope to convince viewers of their innate humility and ordinariness. They trip the light fantastic to demonstrate how level-headed they are, leap in the air to prove their feet are firmly on the ground.
Diversionary tactics were the standout manoeuvres in the kick-off edition of Dancing with the Stars, the VIP shucking-and-jiving contest that seems set to brighten the winter in the same way a grease fire in a restaurant skip brightens a back alley. The conflagration is spectacular but the raging intensity with which the oily mess blazes inside a confined space is a little disconcerting.
The show is a doggedly faithful copy of BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing. Shinawil, the producer of the RTE series, has set a high bar for contestants by the unquestioning obedience with which it followed the blueprint. However, as with all domestic replicas of overseas programmes, the most pertinent question is why, not how.
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The only viable excuse for format regurgitation is the forging of a new hybrid with a fresh personality. Judging by Sunday’s episode, however, DWTS will struggle to convey any coherent personality whatsoever. There was an unignorable whiff of Eurovision about the proceedings, a sense of ritualised kitsch unfolding within glittering surroundings.
This perception was underscored by the synthetic texture of the rapport between co-hosts Amanda Byram and Nicky Byrne, a slick but bland duo. They spewed superlatives such as “mesmerising” and “magical” with breathless giddiness. But none of the would-be showstoppers justified the hype. The opening number was an ensemble presentation, involving pros and celebs, of Puttin’ on the Ritz, performed with all the dynamism of a sleepy pensioner puttin’ out the cat.
The judging panel comprises a curious blend of sparkle and starch, lamé jackets and stuffed shirts. Brian Redmond is a champion ballroom dancer with the demeanour of a trainee accountant. Choreographer Julian Benson is a camp luvvie from Central Casting. In the middle, like a committee-agreed compromise between glitz and gravitas, is Loraine Barry, another ballroom champ.
All three are feverishly auditioning for public approval, a sizable crimp on their avowed determination to speak their minds candidly. Benson seems especially eager to impress with his credentials and often prefaces remarks with extravagant tributes to his fabulousness. “I’ve worked on many productions internationally and with some of the biggest dance stars in the world,” he declared.
The titular “stars” are a typical mix of fading lights and flashes in the pan. In time, perhaps, we will look back on the inaugural series as a halcyon period, before cabaret has-beens and washed-up politicians enlisted. At the moment, the line-up looks deeply underwhelming, a chorus line of weak links.
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Launch night concentrated on the hoofing — and, occasionally, puffing — of the male competitors: Des Bishop, Des Cahill, Dayl Cronin, Hughie Maughan and Aidan O’Mahony. Bishop seemed the most competitive. The comedian has a history of making reality shows about his efforts at self-improvement, and there was an aggressive gamesmanship to his behaviour. Whenever the camera caught sight of him, he was grinning maniacally, like a hostage negotiator taught not to lose eye contact.
DWTS was never going to be the hit here that similar programmes have been in other countries. RTE’s schedules are already overladen with soft-focus chat shows that provide ample opportunity for celebrity bucklepping and backslapping. But the venture’s prospects are further hampered by sluggish pacing and too much padding.
Opening the series with a two-hour instalment containing about 40 minutes of watchable content was a big mistake. Vast swathes of the show were taken up with pointless gum-flapping and endless recaps. The time-filler ruses also involved a futile phone poll in which viewers were invited to vote on the performances but denied any details of the results.
“Keep dancing” is the Strictly motto. “Get a move on” should become the watchword for the makers of DWTS.