Half an hour in, and I am slumped forward in my seat, cradling my head in my hands. Five more minutes and my brain is pulsing against my skull from all the off-key notes.
I was led to believe this would be a dance recital. But there is one six-minute dance number and the rest is Broadway songs that won’t end. Three hours of them. Bad song-acting. Thinning hair. Dubious sexuality. Awkward dresses that do nothing to cover chunky legs encased in flesh-colored nylon. At least in a proper musical you get a plot, however flimsy. This thing is like a high school choir tryout, act after act just belting saccharine songs that have nothing to do with each other but somehow all sound the same. A guy who yells more than he sings gets three numbers. There’s no justice in this world.
But wait, it gets worse. They cap off the night with a “fusion belly dance.” (There were two dance numbers, fine.) Three girls in their bras, bindis firmly affixed twixt their brows, doing poor belly rolls to a Yin Yang Twins song. To the girl with a massive white flower behind each ear… in silhouette, you looked like a gyrating Yoda. And perhaps that made staying through the end worthwhile.
Post a Comment