Yet again, the Baroness is a little conflicted, dear readers. She so-o-o-o wants to confess something. At the same time I'm worried that once I pick away at the thread that begins to reveal my little secrets, I will be standing before you with nothing left to offer but some stretch marks and a uber-sexy 10 inch scar (scars are sexy, right?) . I have grave concerns that my carefully crafted mystique will erode exponentially. Ah, what the hell. It's Monday, it's raining, and I think it's time to shine some light on another of the Baroness' little quirks.
Here goes. I love, love, LOVE dance movies. And when I say dance movies, here I am in no way, shape, or form particular about the quality. I do draw the line at movies depicting dancing of the mattress/horizontal variety. Don't get me wrong - these cinematic gems have their place. They're just not my bag, man. Barring these, anything else is fair game. "Shall We Dance?". "Take the Lead". "Stomp the Yard". Yesterday, for example, the good Countesses KR and Felicitas and I went to go see "Step Up 2 - The Streets". KR is my guilty pleasure companion - we try to see a movie every couple of weeks that no one else would dare to - with the theater to ourselves, it's almost like having our own private screening. Oh, the irony.
So what is it, exactly, that has me tapping my toes and chair crumpin'? It's the music, the vitality, and the incredible physicality of it all. We admire things we cannot do but wish we could. I love watching them pop and hip hop, and do things with their bodies that seem utterly impossible to you and I. Well, maybe not you - you, too, may be keeping secrets from me. But definitely I.
Part of the reason for the movin' groovin' lovefest is that it's accessible. Anyone who lays out their money can watch. Rumour has it that in some of the more metropolitan cities, you can even watch for free - there's a show somewhere on the street any time of the day or night. It is an expression of joy and freedom, of confidence and spirit - by the people, for the people.
Contrast this with the hoity-toity ballet I had the "priveledge" of attending a few weeks ago. For some reason, whenever I think ballet, I always have in my head that it will classical, of the Swan Lake variety. I completely zone out that there is such a thing as the dreaded "Modern" ballet. Ack. Now, I consider myself to be a fairly intelligent woman. A well-read woman. A thinking woman. All that seems to mean absolutely nothing when one attends a modern ballet. I admit I am not conversant in this language. What I want to know is this - is modern dance intended to make the average audience member feel like a complete moron, with the cultural sophistication of a cave-dweller beating a rock with a pterodactyl bone? Is this the great litmus test of the elite, the dividing wall between the patrons and the artless?
Nowhere in the evening's programme did we receive any clue as to the intent of the choreographer. Sure, I learned about the titles of his other works, and other non-informational items (Mentors. Hopes. Dreams. Favorite Baryshnikov codpiece). What I really wanted was one of those headphones, where some soft, soothing British accent would guide me through the dance. Why were different women wearing different colored costumes? Why was that one particular dancer segregated from the rest? Did this depict violence in 15th century Latvia? Was that gesture a metaphor for man's inhumanity to man? Would it have killed them to put in a single line about what the piece was actually about? Apparently so. And there I sat, feeling utterly stupid, investing 2 hours of my life that I won't get back. I wondered at the end of the evening, if the audience was polled, how many would actually know what they just saw? Or is it a case of the Emperor's New Tutu? No one knows, but no one is willing to give up a thing.
Unlike me. I give up. Gladly. Give me "Step Up 3 - Electric Boogaloo" anytime. That, and some pro-biotic yogurt are all the culture I need.
Here goes. I love, love, LOVE dance movies. And when I say dance movies, here I am in no way, shape, or form particular about the quality. I do draw the line at movies depicting dancing of the mattress/horizontal variety. Don't get me wrong - these cinematic gems have their place. They're just not my bag, man. Barring these, anything else is fair game. "Shall We Dance?". "Take the Lead". "Stomp the Yard". Yesterday, for example, the good Countesses KR and Felicitas and I went to go see "Step Up 2 - The Streets". KR is my guilty pleasure companion - we try to see a movie every couple of weeks that no one else would dare to - with the theater to ourselves, it's almost like having our own private screening. Oh, the irony.
So what is it, exactly, that has me tapping my toes and chair crumpin'? It's the music, the vitality, and the incredible physicality of it all. We admire things we cannot do but wish we could. I love watching them pop and hip hop, and do things with their bodies that seem utterly impossible to you and I. Well, maybe not you - you, too, may be keeping secrets from me. But definitely I.
Part of the reason for the movin' groovin' lovefest is that it's accessible. Anyone who lays out their money can watch. Rumour has it that in some of the more metropolitan cities, you can even watch for free - there's a show somewhere on the street any time of the day or night. It is an expression of joy and freedom, of confidence and spirit - by the people, for the people.
Contrast this with the hoity-toity ballet I had the "priveledge" of attending a few weeks ago. For some reason, whenever I think ballet, I always have in my head that it will classical, of the Swan Lake variety. I completely zone out that there is such a thing as the dreaded "Modern" ballet. Ack. Now, I consider myself to be a fairly intelligent woman. A well-read woman. A thinking woman. All that seems to mean absolutely nothing when one attends a modern ballet. I admit I am not conversant in this language. What I want to know is this - is modern dance intended to make the average audience member feel like a complete moron, with the cultural sophistication of a cave-dweller beating a rock with a pterodactyl bone? Is this the great litmus test of the elite, the dividing wall between the patrons and the artless?
Nowhere in the evening's programme did we receive any clue as to the intent of the choreographer. Sure, I learned about the titles of his other works, and other non-informational items (Mentors. Hopes. Dreams. Favorite Baryshnikov codpiece). What I really wanted was one of those headphones, where some soft, soothing British accent would guide me through the dance. Why were different women wearing different colored costumes? Why was that one particular dancer segregated from the rest? Did this depict violence in 15th century Latvia? Was that gesture a metaphor for man's inhumanity to man? Would it have killed them to put in a single line about what the piece was actually about? Apparently so. And there I sat, feeling utterly stupid, investing 2 hours of my life that I won't get back. I wondered at the end of the evening, if the audience was polled, how many would actually know what they just saw? Or is it a case of the Emperor's New Tutu? No one knows, but no one is willing to give up a thing.
Unlike me. I give up. Gladly. Give me "Step Up 3 - Electric Boogaloo" anytime. That, and some pro-biotic yogurt are all the culture I need.
