Friends, in their infinite wisdom, occasionally suggest career pivots. In recent times, two separate groups proposed I grace the stage of celebrity TV phenomenon, Strictly Come Dancing. Knowing my long-standing affection for dance, including presenting dance television in the early 2000s, and my basic practical understanding – a sprinkle of tap, North London social worker-level salsa, and drunken Argentine tango attempts – they believed Strictly could broaden my audience. However, their well-meaning suggestion was met not with gratitude, but a lengthy, impassioned denunciation worthy of Hugo Chávez or Fidel Castro. My target? Firstly, television talent shows like Strictly Come Dancing and secondly, the very notion of ballroom dancing as a skill judged on such platforms.
My aversion to TV talent shows, draped in ideological rhetoric, is rooted, as ideologies often are, in personal experience. After hosting the opening night of the Comedy Store in 1979 – a night that reshaped British comedy, dismantling sexist and racist stand-up – a producer from London Weekend Television, adorned with a gold chain, approached me. Handing over his card, he inadvertently handed me, or so I thought, my “ticket to stardom.”
Days later, excitement bubbling, I visited his office. He praised my Comedy Store performance before revealing the show he wanted me for: Search for a Star. It wasn’t the breakthrough I envisioned; it was a tawdry talent show. Yet, the allure of television was strong, and I almost agreed. Fate intervened in the form of an ITV strike, sidelining the channel for three months. When Search for a Star finally aired, it was without me. Industrial action saved me from potential TV humiliation (though that came later), and the victor was a comedian named Fogwell Flax.
The success of Fogwell Flax on Search for a Star, compared to my hypothetical failure, has long lingered. As talent shows like X Factor, Britain’s Got Talent, and Strictly ascended to primetime dominance, my quest to understand this divergence intensified, viewed through a Marxist lens of class conflict. Noam Chomsky, in Manufacturing Consent, argues media’s role is to “amuse entertain and inform, and to inculcate individuals with the values, beliefs and codes of behaviour that will integrate them into the institutional structures of the larger society. In a world of concentrated wealth and major conflicts of class interest, to fulfil this role requires systematic propaganda.” Talent shows, therefore, propagate simplicity over complexity, popularity over genuine talent, banality over invention. Complexity breeds critical thought, the nemesis of authoritarianism. Or, as my relative, filmmaker Albert Mayles, stated: “Tyranny is the removal of nuance.”
Speaking of nuance, we arrive at Strictly and ballroom dancing. My disdain for ballroom is inversely proportional to my adoration for most other dance forms. In the 70s, a friend from Southport Art College reigned as a King of Northern Soul at Wigan Casino. In London, I joined him at all-dayers at the 100 Club on Oxford Street. My awkward dancing was inconsequential; I was captivated by the uninhibited beauty and dynamism of the Northern Soul dancers. The choreography and working-class spirit resonated deeply. (Wigan council, in its wisdom, demolished the Wigan Casino, replacing it with nothing.) Similarly, at a Spanish fiesta, the communal sevillana, uniting young and old, fills me with humanistic warmth. Ballroom dancing, however, induces the opposite – a visceral aversion.
Ballroom dancing is fundamentally flawed: the attire, the music, the forced expressions, and the dancing itself. The core issue? Points. Ballroom, an aesthetic pursuit, an art form, is reduced to a competition. The objective shifts to judge-centric performance, confined by rules, fostering a gaudy, artificial aesthetic. Imagine awarding points for Shakespearean acting – the result would be exaggerated, theatrical parody. Ballroom’s repulsiveness isn’t unique; figure skating and rhythmic gymnastics share this trait. The concern is that Strictly shapes public perception of dance, a deeply unsettling prospect.
Authentic Argentine tango, born in Buenos Aires brothels, pulsates with melancholy and sensuality, intertwined with complex, inseparable music. The Strictly ballroom tango, with its strained smiles, robotic movements, and often incongruous music, is a grotesque distortion. An Argentinian friend aptly described ballroom dancing as “impotence.” Dance between genders inherently involves sexuality, yet ballroom is profoundly sterile and unsexy.
Dance, inherently, isn’t revolutionary; art’s political impact is indirect, mirroring politics itself. Giselle attendees won’t storm the streets, regardless of performance quality. However, Strictly celebrities participate in a cultural assault on critical thinking. Echoing Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, where “War is Peace” and “Ignorance is Strength,” Strictly presents ugliness as beauty, prancing as dancing, and ludicrous comparisons as insightful commentary. This manufactured confusion obscures truth. But look out for my show, Hot Tango, Cool Salsa, coming to an arts centre near you (soon-ish).
