Dirty Dancing (1987)

As the last person in the world to see this one, I had some shame. Unfortunately, Patrick Swayze’s death was the impetus for seeing Dirty Dancing. Until now my exposure to Swayze’s talent was Saturday Night Live, Keeping Mum {sex-fiend golf instructor—priceless!}, Red Dawn {classic}, Donnie Darko {still hate that one} and Road House {zen bouncer—love it!}. No, I haven’t seen Ghost. Deal.

So we have the coming of age story of ‘Baby’ Houseman (Jennifer Grey) who expects a lame summer, but instead finds an uber-hot dancer instructor (Swayze).

Dirty Dancing is filled with melodrama and bad hair. Still, I like it and I’m at a loss for why. Is it Swayze’s sultry moves across the dance floor? ‘Cause it sure isn’t his hair. Perhaps it’s the tender caress down Baby’s body. It’s certainly not that lame sneer or incessant hip thrust. Enough! Act already! Jennifer Grey is cute as a button. Who knew her fashion sense would come full circle?!

Dirty Dancing is ultimately a one-trick pony. Its predictability was fun, but I had delusions of grandeur. I called for Johnny to die a fiery death in his car after Baby’s dad (Jerry Orbach) dressed him down. That would have been so much more tragic and wistful. Guess that’s why I’m not screenwriter. The climaxing musical number is delightfully sweet.

Dirty Dancing is entertainment. While I don’t feel my life is necessarily enriched for seeing it, I feel less of a leper. And that’s a nice feeling.