By Gordon Kearns
It's early evening dark. The camera rests on the large, porched white frame cabin on the lake shore by the beach. Baby comes out of her room and calls in to her parents next door that she's going up to the main building to look around. As she bounces lightly down the steps, the camera pulls back to view her within the softly stunning panorama of the lighted resort; we hear the first tentative piano notes of what will be the recurring theme of her story; and we realize we're in for something special with this movie.
This movie is a ballet, a unique modern-times ballet, certainly, but if a ballet can be defined as, according to Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, "a theatrical art form using dancing, music, and scenery to convey a story, theme, or atmosphere," then Dirty Dancing fills the bill on every count. The story of Dirty Dancing moves on dancing, from the raucus merengue lesson given the resort guests only a few minutes into the film to the explosive Time of my Life finale at the resort's closing show. The key love scene is a beautifully choreographed dance. The romance between Baby and Johnny develops from dance scene to dance scene. Great dance images abound: Johnny's using his heartbeat to teach Baby the deep rhythms of the music; Johnny, Baby, and Penny's dance of three; Baby and Penny's mirror dance; the idyll in the woods - dancing on a log, practicing lifts in the lake (the second time the love theme is heard, but softly, and not to interfere with the action). And the music, always the music; the story elements are told more in music than dialog.
The dialog is minimal and unsophisticated, with awkward pauses, repetitions, and fishing for words, as real conversations usually are, especially in emotionally charged situations. When Baby steps into Johnny's room for the first time, he says apologetically, "This isn't a great room. You probably have a great room." She answers, "No, this is a great room." Unfortunately, some critics have misunderstood the minimal, very human dialog as signifying a lack of character depth: "Cardboard characters," as one said (in a minimally worded judgment). Actually, what it really means is that the movie viewer has to attend to and concentrate harder on what is said, how it's said, and the circumstances surrounding the dialog. In other words, you have to pay attention. You have to notice in several early scenes that Baby is very much her daddy's girl, that her ideals are under his control, that he answers and makes decisions for her, and that her future is very much his to strongly influence (if not to direct); you have to notice, again from early on, that she is ever exploring away from his presence (no chapter and verse here, just watch what happens in the developing scenes); and you have to notice her wonder at and curiosity for what she sees people doing outside her father's presence. You can see the wonder in her face as she watches the amazing Penny and Johnny dancing for the first time, and her conflicting emotions as, again for the first time, she watches the sensuous and erotic dancing in the staff quarters. And if anything reflects that she's more than a cardboard character, it's her short soulful response to Johnny when he says, "You're not scared of anything." Her four sentence answer lays open a deeply sensitive and complex human heart. "Me! I'm scared of everything! I'm scared of what I saw. I'm scared of what I did, of who I am. And most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling for the rest of my life the way I feel when I'm with you." (Not the way Shakespeare would have had his Juliet speak. But then what do we really know of the characters of Romeo and Juliet? Isn't theirs the tragedy of the impossible situation in which two star-crossed lovers experience their love, rather than the tragedy of each as an individual? What do we really know of their individual characters? Or, perhaps, does Shakespeare also require us to pay attention to little details, too.)
Then there are the tremendously affecting and telling scenes where the dialog is either non-existent or superfluous, spoken almost too softly to be heard distinctly - all presented with music that does talk: the scene in the front seat of the car where Baby and Johnny say not one word; the scene outside Penny's cabin as Johnny walks away - Baby soundlessly mouths what looks to be, "I love you"(the closest any dialog comes to those historic words in the entire script); the scene after the fight where Johnny moves into baby's arms; the poignant parting scene on the parking lot; and the touching scene between sisters near the end of the movie.
The pivotal point in the story, where the plot direction changes, where the depth of Baby's character is revealed, is her confession to her father of her affair with Johnny. With this action, the dominos start to fall inexorably towards the climax, a climax which, as it turns out, is easy to miss, in keeping with the movie's typically human underplaying of such major moments (do any of us ever really know the exact passings of major milestones in our lives?). And you won't find the climax in the big dance scene; actually, that's the celebration of the climax. The dramatic climax, the zenith of the story, strikes suddenly in that quick, unexpected moment when Johnny defiantly says, "Nobody puts Baby in a corner," and just that fast she steps out of her father's shadow. When he starts to rise in protest, her mother, who also exists in that shadow, decisively stops him. Johnny thus becomes the catalyst for Baby's redemption, and she the catalyst for the resolution of his strength of character. A few minutes later, in confirmation of his courage, he announces to the world, "So I'm going to do my kind of dance with a great partner."; and in confirmation of Baby's release, he introduces her to the world by her "grown-up" name, Frances Houseman.
Dirty Dancing, directed by Emile Ardolino, opened in 1987. Jennifer Grey played Baby, and Patrick Swayze was Johnny. It's a story where you grow to care very deeply about these two characters (to my mind, in any genre of literature, caring about the characters is a requirement for status as a "classic"). It's also a story that makes you feel good (not a requirement for a "classic," but it doesn't hurt).
or go to
An Explanation; Being Things; Childhood; Heroes; The Inner Spirit;
Elves I Have Known
Other Essays at Large: Movie Classics; Class of the Millennium;
My Book Reviews; My Stories
From Dorothy's Corner: For Dorothy
Comments: GKEARNS@prodigy.net