It was a seasonally appropriate night on DWTS last night, eh? What with all the horrifying costumes, frighteningly embarrassing routines, and Carrie Ann handing out high scores like candy.
They totally punk'd my man Helio Castroneves by dressing him up in a get-up reminiscent of Harvey Keitel's Taxi Driver wardrobe.
But, you know, it wasn't supposed to be funny, I don't think. Which is exactly what made it funnier, and more painful. But nothing was more painful than his once-dazzling, affable smile that's now been twisted into a desperate, painful grimace-smile. The guy still danced well, but his personality fizz went flat as his overly-competitive partner Julianne is clearly making him uncomfortable by both pushing him and undermining him at the same time. She acts chirpy but you can almost hear the demon-voice in her head commanding him to SMILE, BITCH! as he cha-cha-chas in post-ironical polyester.
Both Jane and Marie are bitching about ageism in the judging now that they suddenly can't keep up. Marie, fuck it, she's charming on the floor but it was only a matter of time before everyone started out-stepping her. Jane? Fuck her twice. Nothing like insulting your fellow competitors! I'm sick of hearing what great shape she's in for her age. If she's in such great shape, then DANCE, BITCH! She tried, oh lord she tried. But her jive made her look like a marionette and Tony couldn't tighten the strings to snap her feet quickly enough. All this blather about her being so regal and classy. So what if she stands like she's got a stick up her ass? Her mouth is showing her to be the antithesis of class. Just cause she let Owen Wilson fondle her boobs for a laugh doesn't mean she's got free-flowing goodwill forever.
I know what a sucker I am for a pretty face, because no matter how assholey Maks is, I still like him. And, let's face it, Eddie Murphy's baby mama isn't bad on the floor and she doesn't tolerate his shit. But it's also obvious that the judges are going to tell us what they want, what they really really want. They want Mel and Maks to stick around and they will slobber out high scores for her as long as she doesn't fart onstage.
Edyta is doing her part to keep the sex appeal alive. She can't choreograph for shit, and her partner kinda blows. And the music director sabotaged them with a wholly inappropriate Samba song. Their dance was utter bullshit, but Carrie Ann tried to strike a vote saying it was hot or something and gave them a ridiculous score. Then, the irony happens backstage when bubble head Samantha Harris asks Cameron if he'll go shirtless if he sticks around. She just doesn't get it. We may be straight females watching this show, but we're interested in Edyta's body, not his. Her costumes get skimpier each week and we're voting, hoping that by the end of the season she shows up in strategically placed body glitter, pasties and fuck me pumps, and nothing else.
Cheetah girl Sabrina? Girl can dance, yes. She's a ringer, yes. So what? She still stomps around that studio like she's pulping the floorboards into paper, and that's when she's performing the light-and-breezy foxtrot! I love how Ballas didn't even try to lift her, instead she tossed him over her head like Buffy the Vampire Slayer attacking Spike in a lustful rage during the group dance.
And that leaves Jennie Garth. Yeah, that's poor Jennie's problem. They don't show her hot husband enough, and while Seussian-looking Derek actually choreographed the best number this week and Jennie danced it well, she just always has that vanilla flavor. And not Haagen-Dazs vanilla. Just plain, nameless vanilla. Luckily, Len still has the hots for her, and it's exactly her inoffensive, every-girl vibe that could allow her to end up quick-stepping away with the trophy this year.
For real though, don't you think Derek would fit in well doing a guest spot on Pushing Daisies? He's just got the look, man. The cartoonish, freaky look.
Which brings us back to the Halloween theme! And just in case you thought they blew their wad with the costume, make-up, and dance atrocities last night, think again. Tonight they've got the frightful, surgically regenerated Barry Manilow to up the make sure there's enough plastic and saccharine pumping across the floor to make us all sick to our stomachs! Whee! I can already imagine the feathers flying during the obligatory "Copacabana" dance-fest! And if that's not candy for the tv soul, I don't know what is.
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