Dah da-dah dah dah dah daaaah, dah da-dah dah dah. That music can only mean one thing: summer is
well and truly over and we are now counting down the weeks till Christmas. How do we know this? By the return of Strictly Come Dancing season,
of course. Regular readers might think
this primetime piece of the BBC1 Saturday
and Sunday night schedule is a bit broad for the acerbic sideswipes of Just One More Episode. But you can’t beat a bit of wholesome teatime
family entertainment. There’s enough
terrible awful out there in the world that sometimes distracting yourself with
concern about the quality of a faded soapstar’s Paso Doble can be just what the
doctor ordered.
I was snootily dismissive of the show when it first appeared
in 2004. It seemed like a Daily
Mail-esque attempt to bring back a long-gone former era by rebooting pensioners’
favourite Come Dancing,
though the update came from the slapping on of the slightly lost adjective Strictly
(presumably in an attempt to bring to mind the sexy intensity of Baz Luhrmann’s Strictly Ballroom). Either way, the name doesn’t make any
grammatical sense. You can’t tell
someone to carry out an action in a strict way: strictly wash your hands,
strictly put your trousers back on etc.
But this is just the first quality of many that makes the show so magical:
it is fully departed from reality.
The concept is simple: a handful of celebrities learn to
ballroom dance by being partnered up with world champion professionals. Each week, they present a dance before a panel
of judges, whose scores are combined with a public vote to determine weekly
eliminations until an overall winner is left to lift the Glitterball
Trophy. Whereas most celeb shows have
come with a sense of shame and desperation (from Celebrity Big Brother to the early days of I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here), Strictly Come
Dancing has always kept an aspirational quality simply because it looks so much
fun and wins the heart of every participant.
And did someone say Sir Bruce Forsyth? Probably not, but his presenting role for the
show’s first ten years became part of its essential charm – you couldn’t help
but enjoy his rambling links while at the same time slightly wishing they were
over. Sadly, Brucey’s last Tango was in
2017 (RIP), but the addition of Claudia Winkleman
since 2014 has multiplied the joy the show brings, proving true the
revolutionary theory that two women (she and Tess Daly) can present a
primetime show without any need of an older gentleman. Winkleman’s wizardry originates in her fringe,
which she peers through while frequently rendering speechless the dancers
around her with her quick(step) wit. I love
her.
But let’s be honest: everyone involved in this show must be
wonderful. Its production ambition is
now so huge that I can only guess at the size of the various teams: wardrobe,
hair, make-up, props, not to mention the band and singers who will literally
take on anything, week in, week out. I
have particular affection for the judges.
Sadly, dear Len Goodman
(seven!) is no longer pickling his walnuts having retired in 2016, but Shirley Ballas has
proved a replacement to be reckoned with as Head Judge. I always enjoyed Darcey Bussell, but am
thrilled to see Motsi Mabuse
storming onto the scene. An older woman
of colour in a role of authority on primetime TV shouldn’t need a comment in
2019, but it feels fitting to celebrate her appointment. Meanwhile, whatever the significance to diversity,
you’ve still got Bruno
Tonioli’s elastic turns of expression being delivered with such energy he regularly
slips off his chair, alongside Craig Revel Horwood’s
deeply unimpressed face. As each lifts
their scoring paddle at the end of a dance, you realise numbers have never been
so exciting. Or glittery.
I often sit there wondering how I can possibly get on the
show. Normally, through work contacts, I
can get tickets to my favourite telly, having bothered The X
Factor live shows many a time over the years. But as a BBC production, the doors are
shuttered to my advertising dollars. My
only hope (and current career plan) therefore is to get a minor part in a soap
opera. My acting is hammy enough and I
am open minded about onscreen nudity in case there are any late-night specials. I’m not fussy about the story arc: a murder,
or some other terrible crime perhaps. It
just needs to be enough to get me at the top of that staircase one Saturday
evening, dressed in skin-tight trews, Cuban heels and a garish shirt barely
buttoned to the naval, announced by Alan Dedicoat with some
sort of creative play on my occupation (failed blogger and serial boxset consumer?),
with an East European professional lady clasped at my side. I reckon I could at least make it to
Blackpool.
And that’s the glorious thing: how Strictly punctuates the
road to the end of the year: movie week, Halloween, the first Argentine Tango, Blackpool,
the final and into the Christmas special.
And the years have been punctuated by the professional dancers’ welcome
place in the lists of what we call household names (went a bit Miranda there, didn’t I?). You can hear the housewives frothing over
their beloved Kevin
Clifton, while Anton
du Beke (the only one to make all 17 series) has mastered the withering
comment after years of being saddled with an array of no hopers. Janette Manrara is
always the one to watch in the spectacular group performances while Karen Hauer and Aljaž Skorjanec
compete for the world’s biggest smile.
They are all great and it’s easy to see how deeply they care about
getting through to each next week.
The final element I’ll go on about is the celebrities
themselves. At some point in the future,
everyone who’s ever been well known in the UK will have taken part, leading to
my parents’ favourite question to ask about anyone famous: “What were they in
last?” The quality has been mixed, from
the most appalling performances that make you wonder if that person can even clap
in time to a beat, let alone perform a Foxtrot.
Then, there are the average ones, and both this and the former category can
be fast-forwarded if you’re watching on catch up. Sure, every minute of the show can be
enjoyed, but once you compare the top scorers, there really is no competition. So here is a rundown of a handful of the best
dances ever (that I can currently remember):
It was week three (movie week) and the pair’s Pulp Fiction-themed
performance began
softly but took us all by surprise as it escalated and escalated to
breath-taking heights of cool fleet-footedness.
The audience’s cheers made it clear that they couldn’t believe it. Nobody was expecting this from a chap off The Wanted and it became an
absolute best in class. The nods to the
film were as perfect as the execution.
Never an easy dance for the celebrity
males, Mac embraced every element of the discipline, looking as comfortable in
hold with Mabuse as he did shaking his hips liberally while out of it on the
floor.
Any of Dixon’s dances could be in here, but this one really played
to her strengths. Full of attack (a Darcey-ism)
yet playful in nature, this dance elevated 2007 as a watershed year in the show
when the celebrities really had to be exceptionally good to triumph, not just a
bit good.
She of Love Island was a
worthy Strictly winner, totally nailing this comedic routine with perfect
form and smiling throughout while Pasha tossed her hither and thither.
Elevating things again with perfect flicks throughout, Burke jives
the bejesus out of Proud
Mary and the crowd goes wild.
Merrygold’s early exit from this series was one of history’s
greatest miscarriages of justice and I still don’t know how it was allowed to
happen. In this dance, he still looks
cool, despite being dressed as a blue troll, and proves beyond doubt why he and
Janette should have gone on to the final.
Guaranteed smiles.
There are too many to mention, but let’s just take a moment
to think about Lisa Riley’s
Samba at Blackpool ending in the splits.
Yes. I’m surprised more couples
don’t forget their steps, though upsets can and do occur. Perhaps the most distressing moment for
anyone taking part is the Rumba, which surely needs to be cast out after so
many years of stiff-hipped sportsmen making a mockery of it. Nevertheless, Strictly remains some of the
best fun you can have on TV. And the
ratings! While X Factor fades from its
peak, its BBC rival still easily draws ten million viewers. No sob stories, no nastiness for the sake of
it: just the pursuit of an artform that is potentially one of humankind’s
greatest contributions to itself. Maybe
if life contained more dancing, there would be less Brexit. The scores are in: TEN!
No comments:
Post a Comment