I can’t for the life of me figure out why I’m so hooked on the TV programme, ‘Come Dance with Me.’ To begin with, it’s so completely staged. Trust me. Anything left in one’s wardrobe for the programme’s television cameras to see is either too dull to mention or a plant to show how cleverly eccentric one is. It also makes no sense that television is used as a medium to watch others judge the quality of food. We can’t taste it. We can’t smell it. We can’t even evaluate whether those tasting it and smelling it are doing so accurately. Or, can we?
I think this is the hook. By examining the way others speak, the way they dress, the way they get along with strangers, we make assumptions about how accurately they assess the cuisine but, more importantly, who they are as people. When we hear their profession and ogle the gaudy décor of their homes, we decide one way or another if they’re ‘one of us’. Every pan of the camera provides another clue to help determine whom we favour.
And, if there’s a bit of friction between contestants or a spark of potential romance, well, the voyeur in all of us doesn’t mind being fed as well.
The programme lays bare the basic group dynamics of life. We observe firsthand the difficulties we all face in overcoming assumptions about strangers with whom we’re forced to share time and space. We identify with the contestant who seems to be the odd person out and never manages to meld with the other contestants. We’re roiled by the contestant who penalises our favourite competitor out of spite instead of merit. We champion the contestant who wins despite initial scepticism.
We see ourselves in their glory and embarrassment and, at the end of the day, applaud them for being themselves –truly themselves - in front of a camera for the entire world to see.
