In the sweltering summer of 1987, a seemingly simple movie about dance and romance pirouetted its way into my 13-year-old world and countless others. My mother, in what she later confessed was a moment of parental naiveté, took my sister and me to see what she thought was a lighthearted dance film, Dirty Dancing. We settled into our seats, unaware that we were about to be immersed in a story that was far more profound than just fancy footwork. What unfolded on screen was a narrative tapestry woven with threads of class disparity, burgeoning feminism, sexual awakening, the specter of illegal abortion, and even the grim reality of sexual assault. If my mother felt a tremor of unease as these themes emerged, I was too engrossed to notice.
I was completely captivated. Dirty Dancing wasn’t just a movie; it felt like a revelation. Beneath the shimmering surface of a teen romantic comedy, disguised as a nostalgic dance flick, lay a quietly rebellious undercurrent. It challenged many of the conventional narratives being presented to me as a young woman teetering on the brink of adolescence. At a time when adults around me were fervently hoping I’d navigate those tumultuous years with minimal rebellion and maximum conformity, Dirty Dancing offered a different perspective. It became an unexpected source of education, subtly introducing me to crucial cultural and social issues, including the pre-Roe v Wade era in America, the nuances of consensual sex, and the abhorrent nature of rape.
The film’s impact resonated deeply and unexpectedly. A year later, during a confirmation class, when our instructor, a reverend, began to preach about the evils of legal abortion, my mind flashed to Penny, the dancer in Dirty Dancing, hemorrhaging and desperate, her life hanging precariously in the balance without Dr. Houseman’s intervention. In that moment, the reverend’s pronouncements rang hollow, devoid of empathy and real-world consequences. Similarly, the following year, during those tentative, awkward first steps towards intimacy with my boyfriend, as his hand gently slipped beneath my shirt, a silent conversation unfolded. His actions, his consideration, his palpable respect, echoed the tenderness of Johnny Castle, not the predatory aggression of Robbie Gould, the character who assaulted Lisa in the film. Johnny, unlike Robbie, touched Baby with respect and affection. These cinematic comparisons became personal touchstones, shaping my understanding of complex issues through the accessible and emotionally resonant medium of movies dirty dancing.
For a diligent student like myself, eager to please my parents yet already harboring quiet doubts about the rigid doctrines of the church and the patriarchal structures around me, discovering these alternative viewpoints within seemingly frivolous entertainment was transformative. My escape into Dirty Dancing offered more than just entertainment; it was an exhilarating glimpse into bravery. Slipping the well-worn VHS tape into the VCR became a ritual, instantly transporting me to the idyllic Catskills setting of Kellerman’s resort. There, life, while complicated, felt manageable, solvable even, with the right moral compass and a commitment to standing up for what’s right. It was a place where, like Baby, I could imagine learning to be courageous.
Frances “Baby” Houseman, the film’s protagonist, became my unexpected hero, a catalyst for my nascent feminist awakening. Baby, with her unwavering belief in her ability to make a difference, her desire to alleviate world hunger, initially seemed destined for a comfortable, predictable life with the affable but somewhat shallow Neil Kellerman. However, the arrival of Johnny Castle, the charismatic dance instructor, ignited within her a powerful sense of possibility and longing. Baby, with her sensible deck shoes, her admiring glances towards the graceful Penny, and her fierce moral convictions, became an emblem of relatable, imperfect heroism. Even her iconic watermelon-carrying scene spoke volumes about her willingness to step outside societal norms.
Dirty Dancing provided an intimate portrayal of Baby’s life, which, in some ways, mirrored my own. Growing up in families that espouse certain ideals, children often find themselves unexpectedly diverging from their parents’ paths when they attempt to truly embody those stated values. The film subtly captured this generational friction. Dr. Houseman preached equality, yet when Baby acted on this principle, treating people from all walks of life with respect and expecting the same from him, a chasm of misunderstanding opened up between them. At 13, watching that scene, I doubt I fully grasped that I might one day face a similar divide.
However, even at that young age, I instinctively recognized something compelling in Baby. Despite her self-confessed fearfulness, she possessed an audacious, tireless spirit, fueled perhaps by a privileged naiveté that things would ultimately work out if one simply tried hard enough to make them right. Unlike the sanitized Disney princesses I had outgrown, and the vapid, one-dimensional female leads of typical romantic comedies, Baby felt refreshingly real. She was intelligent, witty, clumsy, tenacious, inquisitive, righteous, and strong – a multifaceted character who resonated with me in a way few cinematic heroines had before.
Baby was a revolution in subtle form. She made no apologies for her intelligence or ambition. She confidently asserted herself, adhered to her ethical code, and embraced the consequences of her choices. She admired other women without succumbing to rivalry and dismissed perfectly acceptable suitors without fearing spinsterhood. She confronted male authority figures like Robbie, Max Kellerman, and even her own father, exposing their ingrained prejudices and privileged assumptions. She championed Penny’s right to safe abortion and medical care. Her life trajectory wasn’t dictated by romantic pursuits; she didn’t abandon her plans when Johnny was fired.
Any single one of these elements would have elevated Dirty Dancing above the typical teenage fare. But then there was more: at 13, already conditioned to perceive sex in movies as something that passively happened to girls, and to anticipate dire consequences for any girl who engaged in premarital sex, I watched Baby Houseman actively choose and enthusiastically consent to sex. She experienced pleasure, felt no remorse, and suffered no tragic, karmic retribution.
It’s hard to exaggerate the significance of this message at a time when slumber parties were incomplete without slasher films where promiscuous girls met gruesome ends. In school, a girl who hadn’t kissed a boy was deemed a loser, while one who had was labeled a “skank.” My own minister, upon hearing my doubts about religious doctrine, warned me I’d be “pregnant or dead” by 16. (Neither fate befell me.)
Dirty Dancing presented a different narrative. I couldn’t fully articulate its importance then; I only knew I was drawn to it because it resonated with something profound within me – something just beyond my grasp.
To this day, Dirty Dancing remains one of those movies, like The Shawshank Redemption or Time Bandits, that commands my attention whenever I stumble upon it while channel surfing. It’s a guilty pleasure, yes, but one layered with meaning. I still appreciate the corny jokes, the teenage angst, the anachronistic inclusion of Patrick Swayze’s ballad “She’s Like the Wind” in a soundtrack supposedly set in the early 1960s, and the subtle undercurrent of rebellion woven into its seemingly lighthearted framework.
And I still love watching Baby dance with Johnny Castle, a man who valued her so deeply that he famously declared, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” That line, and the sentiment behind it, continues to resonate, even decades later.
