The year was 1987, a sweltering August afternoon, and I was a wide-eyed 13-year-old accompanying my mother and little sister to see Dirty Dancing. What we thought was a light-hearted dance film at the movies turned out to be a deeply impactful cinematic experience. Years later, my mom confessed her slight discomfort, realizing she had inadvertently brought her young daughters to a movie that, beyond the captivating dance sequences, delved into complex themes of class disparity, feminism, sexuality, and even sensitive topics like abortion and sexual assault. However, in that darkened movie theater, I was completely oblivious to any parental unease.
I was utterly captivated, perched on the edge of my seat, immersed in the sheer joy of discovering a film that resonated with me on a profoundly personal level. Dirty Dancing at the movies felt less like entertainment and more like a revelation, a secret gift just for me.
Beneath the surface of what appeared to be a typical teen romantic comedy, adorned with the nostalgic charm of a period dance movie, Dirty Dancing subtly delivered a powerful counter-narrative to many of the conventional messages aimed at adolescent girls like myself. At that pivotal age, poised on the brink of womanhood, the adults around me fervently hoped I would navigate those tumultuous years without too much rebellion or the stereotypical “foolishness” attributed to teenage hormones. Instead, Dirty Dancing became an unexpected source of cultural education, introducing me to critical social and political issues. It offered glimpses into a pre-Roe v Wade America, sparked conversations about consensual sex, and confronted the harsh reality of sexual assault.
A year later, during a confirmation class, when a clergyman passionately denounced the evils of legal abortion, my mind immediately flashed to Penny, the dancer in Dirty Dancing, facing a life-threatening situation from an unsafe abortion. I pictured her weakened and desperate, only saved by Dr. Houseman’s medical intervention. In that moment, the reverend’s pronouncements rang hollow and misguided. Similarly, the following year, during those tentative, awkward first steps into a sexual relationship with my boyfriend, I found myself drawing parallels to Dirty Dancing. When he gently placed his hand under my shirt, constantly checking in, ensuring my comfort and consent, I recognized his respect and consideration. He was nothing like Robbie Gould, the predatory character who assaulted Lisa in the movie. Instead, he mirrored Johnny Castle, who treated Baby with tenderness and genuine affection. Dirty Dancing at the movies was teaching me about respect and consent in ways that felt real and relatable.
As a diligent student, eager to please my parents, I was also quietly beginning to question the established doctrines of the church and the patriarchal structures of society. Discovering alternative perspectives hidden within seemingly lighthearted entertainment like Dirty Dancing felt like a form of magic. My escape into this cinematic world became an exhilarating experience. Popping the well-worn VHS tape of Dirty Dancing into the VCR transported me instantly to the idyllic Catskills setting. There, life, while complex, appeared manageable, solvable even, with unwavering principles. It instilled in me a sense that I, too, could learn to be brave, just like Baby.
Baby, the film’s protagonist, became my unexpected hero, the unlikely star of my burgeoning feminist consciousness. She was a young woman who dared to believe she could make a difference in the world, who genuinely wanted to send her uneaten food to starving children. Initially, she seemed perfectly suited to the conventional, comfortable world of Neil Kellerman, the aspiring model of complacency. However, it was the charismatic, smoldering dance instructor, Johnny Castle, who ignited within her a fire of possibility and desire. Baby, with her sensible deck shoes, her admiring glances towards the beautiful Penny, and her fierce moral compass, became a symbol of something more. And, of course, she famously carried a watermelon – an image forever etched in cinematic memory.
Dirty Dancing at the movies offered an intimate glimpse into Baby’s life, which, in some ways, mirrored my own. Growing up in certain types of families, adhering too closely to parental pronouncements, rather than observing their actual behavior, and striving to embody their stated ideals, rather than following their practical examples, inevitably leads to a surprising realization. There comes a moment when both parent and child are taken aback to discover they are not as alike as once assumed.
Dr. Houseman preached equality, telling his daughter that all people are inherently equal. Yet, when Baby acted upon this belief, treating everyone with respect and expecting her father to do the same, a profound chasm of disillusionment opened up between them. Watching this scene at 13, I doubt I fully grasped that I might one day face a similar divide in my own life.
However, I instantly recognized that Baby possessed a quality I deeply desired. Despite her self-confessed fear of “everything,” she was audacious and relentless, driven perhaps less by sheer courage and more by a naive, privileged optimism that everything would ultimately be alright, as long as one actively worked to make it so.
Unlike the Disney princesses I had outgrown, and unlike the shallow, one-dimensional female leads in typical romantic comedies that I could never relate to, Baby was intelligent, witty, impulsive, persistent, awkward, inquisitive, righteous, and strong. She felt instantly real to me in a way that most female characters in movies simply did not.
Baby was a quiet revolution on screen.
She never apologized for her intelligence or ambition. She stood up for herself, resolutely adhered to her principles, and accepted the consequences of her choices. She admired other women without envy or competition and confidently dismissed perfectly acceptable male suitors without fearing being alone.
She confronted men – Robbie, Max Kellerman, and even her own father – challenging their prejudices and privileged assumptions. She bravely helped Penny obtain an abortion and seek medical care. She didn’t abandon her own life or change her future plans when Johnny was unjustly fired and left town.
Any single one of these aspects would have made Dirty Dancing significantly superior to the vast majority of films marketed to teenage girls. But Dirty Dancing at the movies offered so much more.
And then there was the groundbreaking portrayal of sex. At 13, I was already conditioned to expect that sex in movies happened to girls, and to anticipate dire consequences for any girl who engaged in premarital sex. Yet, in the theater, I watched Baby Houseman actively choose and enthusiastically consent to sex, outside of marriage, and, remarkably, enjoy it, without regret, and without suffering any tragic, karmic punishment as a result.
It’s hard to overstate the significance of this message at a time when slumber parties were incomplete without a slasher film where the “slutty” girl was invariably the first to die. When, at school, a girl who admitted to never having kissed a boy was deemed a loser, while a girl who had was labeled a “skank.” When my own minister publicly chastised me for questioning church doctrine, warning I would be “pregnant or dead” by the age of 16 (neither of which, thankfully, came to pass).
Dirty Dancing presented something radically different. I couldn’t fully articulate its importance then, but I instinctively knew I loved watching it because it resonated deeply with me – something intangible, yet profoundly felt.
To this day, Dirty Dancing remains one of those cinematic gems, like The Shawshank Redemption or Time Bandits, that compels me to stop channel-surfing and watch whenever I stumble upon it. It’s a cherished guilty pleasure. I still relish the corny jokes, the teenage angst, the anachronistic inclusion of Patrick Swayze’s ballad “She’s Like the Wind” into a soundtrack supposedly set in the early 1960s, and the subtle rebellious spirit woven into its deceptively cheesy exterior.
And I still adore watching Baby dance with Johnny Castle, a man who respected and valued her so deeply that he famously declared, “Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”
That iconic line, and the film itself, continues to resonate powerfully, even decades later.
