Shall We Dance?
Miramax
Starring: Richard Gere, jennifer Lopez and Susan Sarandon
The Verdict: “Dance” lacks the passion of the tango and is more boring than the polka.
1/2 star out of 5 stars
This misstep does a good job showing two things: the frightful attention-whore Jennifer Lopez and the washed-up, colorless Richard Gere.
These two make the perfect pair. Neither possess any raw talent, yet their careers soar at times. Gere got lucky sleeping with Julia Roberts in the quintessential hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold anthem “Pretty Woman,” and Lopez shakes her rear for drooling pop-culture addicts.
Of course, no one with a critical eye would consider Gere a great actor. Perhaps he’s bearable in some pictures, convincing the viewer enough for a simple, “Well, he didn’t suck.”
And Lopez, sweet diva of Latin pop, melodramatic pig slop (“Enough”) and repugnant, psychotic poppycock (“U-Turn”). Jennifer dances, too, and don’t you forget it, for scores of music videos never remind us enough.
“Shall We Dance?” begins with another busy day in estate lawyer John Clark’s (Gere) life. A monologue by Gere conveys the lethargic and repetitive work of discussing wills with clients. Not helping the rigidity of his life, John rides a dreary train to and from work. He frowns at the dinner table. His daughter is growing up too fast, and John never spends sufficient time with his wife, Beverly (Susan Sarandon).
Then, within a quick turn of the eye during the train ride, John spots the dance teacher, Paulina (Jennifer Lopez), looking out a high window. After more contemplation, one night John leaves the train ride home and enters Paulina’s dance studio. He signs up for dance lessons, wanting closer contact with his Lady of Shalott (or maybe Lady of MTV). Along the course of the film, Paulina expresses no interest in a relationship with her stalker, and a three second flashback of Paulina dancing with her former partner zips by the viewer.
But John still finds happiness. He loves ballroom dancing with the other male students, a few uninteresting lads: a young homophobe who thinks with his member; an overweight fianc hopeful wanting to trim some pounds and a wigged, effeminate sociopath (Stanley Tucci).
However, John’s wife becomes increasingly worried and suspicious, for she hires a private investigator to spy on the hip ballroom law practitioner.
“Dance?” should be studied for how not to characterize. None of the players prove themselves as even two-dimensional. For instance, Lisa Ann Walter portrays Bobbie, the sharp-tongued mom with impressive dancing prowess. Throughout the movie, she makes snide remarks and curls her lip. That’s it. Sure, Bobbie loves dancing, but according to this inspirational film, everyone should love dancing.
Furthermore, Gere’s character sinks into dubious quicksand. The viewer never learns his true feelings. Does John really want Paulina? Does he truly care about his wife? Gere always sounds ridiculous with the romantic words since his actions rarely support them, and an explanation for Gere’s devoutness to dancing does not surface clearly. Theoretically, one could probably think of a slew of reasons, and this exposes the inherent laziness of the romantic comedy’s screenwriters.
Meanwhile, Lopez proves herself as emotionally complex as a snobby high school cheerleader gloating about her part in the new school play. Lopez pouts arrogantly for the audience’s sympathy and flaunts her buns of Latin iron for stir-crazy singles. Unfortunately for Lopez, her lines fall into elevator shafts every time, especially with this doozy: “Don’t dance if that’s what you’re after.” The only enjoyable thing about watching Lopez is when she strains to look pensive. Too bad she isn’t well endowed upstairs.
Naturally, if “Dance?” lasted about 90 minutes, things wouldn’t seem as irredeemable. Yet with his love for the expanded sludge of a poor man’s scribble, director Peter Chelsom pretends like the movie ends and sends more limping dance scenes our way. Even worse than the monotonous dance rehearsals and contests, this dramatic demonstration happened at least three times: Gere checks out Lopez’s body, and everything oozes into a downer dream state when the two stars looks seriously at each other. Slow camerawork pervades these clich, “falling for you” staredown contests. And as Gere relates cheap, Valentine’s Day card garbage, “You looked on the outside the way I was feeling on the inside,” expect an unquestionable disregard for anything associated with this bumbling production.
Truthfully, this worthless marathon of ballroom blitzkriegs and the flattest characters could have mustered positive elements. Sarandon fails miserably as support. As Beverly wonders if John has fooled around, Sarandon looks as if she lost her dog instead of receiving doubt about a husband. Also, the private investigator and daughter roles could have been stretched into some decent material, but only the prestigious Gere and Lopez parts matter, apparently.
While watching this destitute filmmaking, I searched for something worthwhile. Amazingly, Gere delivers a funny remark in a particular scene. Although I felt guilty for laughing, it granted slight relief and fake hope. Imagine burning in hell for a while, and a drop of water splashes on your face. Gere’s one good line was a water drop.
The director doubtfully had the following two messages of “Dance?” in mind, but nonetheless, sharing these may enlighten you more.
First, if you’re completely down, or if you just got cancer, or if a gang just robbed you, or if your entire community thinks more of AIDS than you, ballroom dancing will solve all problems and help you achieve the evasive cool vibe.
Secondly, Jennifer Lopez’s body looks so hot that filmmakers shamelessly whore her body on the screen with her immediate consent because of a lame script and inept or washed-up actors and actresses.
Ultimately, “Dance?” is worse than domestic violence. If a valid argument for the discontinuation of dance films did not exist, it surfaced rather swiftly after viewing this rehashed self-empowerment seminar. But some will still watch this wretched part VH1, part romantic comedy and part “Save the Last Dance,” for Richard and Jennifer’s butt make appearances.
Personally, slow dancing to death metal would be more entertaining.