Color inside the lines: race and representation in the formula dance film

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Color
Inside
the
Lines:
Race
and
Representation
in
the
Formula
Dance
Film

By
Marika
Piday-‐Warren

A
dissertation
submitted
in
partial
fulfillment
of
the
requirements
for
the
degree
of

Doctor
of
Philosophy
in
the
Critical
Studies
Department

University
of
Southern
California

August
2015

TABLE
OF
CONTENTS

1.
Introduction………………………………………………………………………………………
1

2.
Literature
Review……………………………………………………………………………….5

3.
History
and
Evolutions:
A
Film
Musical
Legacy…………………………………….27

4.
Setting
the
Stage:
Save
the
Last
Dance
and
a
Developing
Genre……………..57

5.
Battlegrounds:
Street
Style
and
the
Competition
Dance
Film………………...77

6.
Back
to
School:
Black
Narratives
and
Upward
Mobility…………………………103

7.
Transitions:
The
Millennial
Tragic
Mulatto…………………………………………...129

8.
Waiting
in
the
Wings:
Race,
Gender,
and
Ballet…………………………………….149

9.
Go
Team,
Go:
Bring
It
On
and
the
Quest
for
White
Identity…………………….170

10.
Darkness
Invisible:
The
Step
Up
Franchise…………………………………………186

11.
Conclusion………………………………………………………………………………………..236

Bibliography…………………………………………………………………………………………..241

Introduction:
Warm
Up

In
2001,
the
iPod
made
its
debut
and
became
an
instant
cultural
phenomenon.
The

technology
itself
was
impressive
and
in
accordance
with
Apple’s
ethos,
it
boasted
a

minimalist
and
streamlined
aesthetic.
In
short,
the
iPod
was
already
endowed
with
a

considerable
amount
of
cool.
Appealing
to
a
broad
demographic
by
the
sheer
versatility
of

its
voluminous
playlists,
iPod
advertising
initially
emphasized
the
eccentricity
of
its
storage

capabilities,
“1000
songs
in
your
pocket.”
However,
in
a
continual
effort
to
stay
at
the

cultural
vanguard,
Apple
debuted
a
new
ad
campaign
in
2004
that
saturated
the
commercial

market
and
has
become
synonymous
with
the
brand
ever
since.

Known
as
the
“Silhouette”

series,
Apple
released
a
dozen
of
these
live-‐action
commercials
between
2004
and
2008,

each
set
to
a
different
song
but
maintaining
a
distinctive
visual
design
and
concept:
backed

by
the
pulsating
rhythms
of
featured
musical
artists,
dancing
figures—sharply
rendered
in

black
silhouette—energetically
gyrate
against
a
rapidly
shifting
colored
background
in
pop

arts
hues
of
electric
blue,
yellow,
orange,
pink,
purple,
and
neon
green.
The
dancers
are

male
and
female,
differentiated
by
their
hair,
accessories,
and
clothing,
but
each
has
an
iPod

in
hand
and
earbuds
in
place.
The
technology
is
immediately
recognizable,
since
the

commercial’s
visual
design
foregrounds
the
iPod
itself,
presented
in
iconic
white
and

glowing
starkly
against
the
black
dancers
and
rainbow
backdrop.

The
figures
themselves
are
reduced
to
anonymity
without
visible
features,
and
they

are
essentially
dancing
shadows.
However,
while
their
faces
may
not
be
visible,
their
race
is

not
only
highly
evident
but
also
provides
the
very
hook
and
element
of
coolness
that
the
ad

intends
to
capitalize
on:
the
black
silhouettes
also
happen
to
be
black
dancers,
or
rather

they
exhibit
all
the
traits
and
accoutrement
that
we
associate
with
blackness
in
our

collective
cultural
perception—a
perception
centuries
in
the
making
and
created
by
an

accumulated
set
of
signifiers
that
have
been
furnished
and
reinforced
by
media
products

like
this
ad.
Most
of
the
dancers
have
afros,
dreadlocks,
or
braids,
and
their
apparel
includes

hoodies,
beanies,
baggy
pants,
and
athletic
sweatbands.
Admittedly
some
of
these
dancers

may
not
actually
be
black;
some
are
perhaps
mixed-‐race
or
Latino
or
even
white
(though

unlikely)
but
the
point
remains
that
we
inevitably
associate
these
moves,
this
style
of
dress,

and
these
specific
songs
with
an
urban
street
sensibility
derived
from
black
culture,
ghetto

life,
and
‘hood
style,
all
of
which
get
equated
with
a
sense
of
on-‐trend
freshness.

241

In
keeping
with
the
iPod’s
chief
appeal—namely
its
sheer
multiplicity—Apple

selected
diverse
musical
genres
and
contracted
a
varied
roster
of
artists,
ranging
from
Paul

McCartney
and
Bob
Dylan,
to
Eminem
and
U2,
all
of
whom
make
cameos
in
their
respective

ads.
However,
the
casting
of
the
dancers,
or
the
so-‐called
“Ipod
People,”
remains
the
same

throughout
the
four-‐year
campaign,
and
despite
the
variance
in
musical
styles,
their
dance

style
also
remains
the
same:
it
is
identifiably
street
dance
with
hip-‐hop
moves
prevailing,

even
if
the
choreography
is
somewhat
dissonant
with
the
chosen
song.
The
most

prominently
“urban”
ads
feature
hip-‐hop/rap
songs
by
The
Gorillaz,
Black
Eyed
Peas,

Ozomatli,
and
Daft
Punk.
In
what
is
perhaps
an
intentional
effort
to
propose
a
multicultural

vision,
it
is
worth
noting
that
these
groups
are
mixed-‐race
and
transnational
artists
who

have
adopted
and
adapted
African
American
music
to
form
a
recombinant
sound
(Daft
Punk

is
French,
The
Gorillaz
are
British,
Black
Eyed
Peas
are
a
veritable
rainbow
of
ethnicities,

etc.).
So
while
the
musicians
who
have
provided
their
sonic
presence
in
these
commercials

may
well
represent
the
utopian
multiracial
future
in
a
colorblind
world,
the
dance
moves

and
stylistic
signatures
of
the
ad’s
visual
design
are
all
inescapably
borrowed
from
black

culture.

Like
so
many
assumptions
in
the
nexus
of
racial
ideology,
the
message
is
clear
yet
so

pervasive
that
it
has
become
naturalized
and
unquestioned:
black
culture
is
cool,
thus
iPod

is
cool.
Buy
the
ipod
and
become
cool,
and
subliminally,
unleash
your
inner
black
person.

The
dancers’
verve
and
style
are
infectious,
and
who
wouldn’t
want
to
capture
that
joie
de

vivre
if
it
came
in
a
brandable,
consumable
package?
Through
this
ad
campaign,
iPod

engaged
in
the
all-‐too-‐familiar
culture
industry
practice
of
appropriating
and
commodifying

black
culture.
This
repackaging
is
intended
to
sell
a
lifestyle
concept
by
injecting
a
product

or
image
with
urban-‐chic
appeal
and
a
street
sensibility
that
supposedly
includes
an

automatic,
intrinsic
authenticity.
From
the
cakewalk
to
rock-‐and-‐roll,
the
history
of
black

cultural
and
artistic
theft
is
well
documented,
and
both
the
historical
and
ongoing

contemporary
appropriation
and
repurposing
of
black
dance
is
one
of
the
most
fascinating

and
predominant
features
in
this
cycle
of
cultural
cannibalism.

The
iPod
ad,
its
appeal,
and
its
underlying
logic
encompass
what
I
will
explore
in

this
project:
how
the
black
dancing
body
is
used
in
media
products,
specifically
narrative

film,
and
how
binary
logic
defines
whiteness
in
opposition
to
black
culture,
often
positing
an

illusory
harmonious
union
with
a
lingering,
naively
optimistic
multicultural
sentiment.
The

242

black
dancing
body
is
admired,
while
the
bodies
themselves
and
the
fact
of
blackness
itself

may
still
be
stereotyped,
judged,
privately
resented,
or
even
outright
reviled.
The
iPod
ad

represents
this
dual
mechanism
of
admiration
and
appropriation,
fascination
and
rejection.

These
are
recognizably
black
bodies
and
yet
their
identity
has
been
conveniently
erased
to

seem
universal
and
appeal
to
a
broad
demographic—
to
ideologically
have
it
both
ways.

Such
methods
enact
an
ideological
sleight-‐of-‐hand,
not
alienating
any
particular
market
by

explicitly
depicting
race,
but
using
unabashedly
racialized
signifiers
to
sell
the
concept
of

youth
and
cool.
In
film,
television,
and
advertisement,
this
practice
is
prevalent
and

ultimately
detrimental
if
it
goes
unacknowledged.
While
I
do
not
propose
a
solution
or

proscriptive
measures,
cognizance
is
the
crucial
step
so
that
we
do
not
obligingly
absorb
the

often
specious
rhetoric
of
racial
logic.
According
to
these
media
products,
whites
are
uptight

and
blacks
must
teach
them
to
relax;
blacks
are
inherently
cool,
and
while
black
people

themselves
may
be
troubling,
their
culture
is
desirable
and
above
all,
consumable.

By
looking
at
the
recent
cycle
of
urban-‐themed
dance
films
and
their
pointed
use
of

black
culture
and
eventual
disavowal
of
blacks
themselves,
I
will
situate
these
mainstream

films
within
the
larger
historical
context
of
black
appropriation
and
investigate
the
ongoing

cultural
schism
that
creates
binaries
of
white
and
black
culture
alongside
the
manner
in

which
dance
becomes
a
metonym
for
each
respective
race.
These
films
belong
to
a

burgeoning
genre
that
I
term
the
Formula
Dance
Film.
Maligned
by
critics
but
embraced
by

audiences,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
occupies
a
decidedly
low
position
on
the
spectrum
of

cultural
capital
and
film
studies.
Praised
for
the
dance
but
unilaterally
lambasted
for

storytelling
and
acting,
these
films
have
been
excluded
from
artistic
and
industrial
prestige

(none
have
ever
merited
a
major
award
nomination)
and
yet
they
garner
considerable

attention
and
commendation
in
the
youth
market,
earning
nominations
from
teen-‐oriented

award
shows
and
consistently
dominating
the
opening
weekend
box
office.
With
its
populist

appeal
and
divisive
reactions,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
exposes
the
residual
and
retrenched

polarities
of
high
and
pop
culture
in
terms
of
audience
reception—a
divide
that
extends
to

the
content
of
the
films
themselves,
which
touch
on
cultural
and
racial
binaries,
albeit

problematically
given
the
ideological
ambiguities
that
plague
the
cycle.
The
Formula
Dance

Film
structure
is
predicated
on
highlighting
racial,
cultural,
and
economic
disparities,
but
it

is
first
and
foremost
a
genre
of
escapist
entertainment
and
spectacle,
creating
an
often

uneasy
alliance
between
trenchant
social
concerns,
fantastical
dance
numbers,
and
a

romanticized
world
view.

243

Potential
questions
in
this
project
include
addressing
the
implications
of
racial

identity
being
portrayed
as
a
voluntary
and
accessible
style:
what
happens
in
these
films

when
the
physical
blacks
bodies
are
removed
but
the
black
signifiers
remain?
Similarly,
do

these
ostensibly
progressive
films
ultimately
become
more
regressive
or
even
reactionary

as
the
decade
continues,
and
is
this
indicative
of
a
larger
societal
sentiment
about
the

possibilities
or
limitations
of
multiculturalism?
While
paying
lip-‐service
to
an
illusory

coalescence,
these
films
are
certainly
problematic,
but
on
the
positive
end,
they
do
function

to
foreground
issues
of
difference,
arguments
of
authenticity
and
appropriation,
and
the

symbolic
currency
of
the
dancing
body.
As
such,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
deserves
serious

critical
attention
and
it
needs
to
be
analyzed
as
a
social
and
politicized
text
that
reflects
the

current
media
representations
of
race
and
gender
in
a
performative
sphere.
My
approach

will
combine
a
survey
of
historical
precedents
and
an
in-‐depth
analysis
of
current
media

texts
on
both
a
sociological
and
artistic
level:
sociologically,
in
terms
of
race
relations
and

public
policy
from
the
Talented
Tenth
of
the
early
1900s,
to
the
faddish
multiculturalism
of

the
1990s
that
still
doggedly
influences
our
postmodern
conceptions
of
race;
artistically,
in

terms
of
cinematic
history
and
the
progression
from
classical
era
musicals
to
the
millennial

urban
dance
films
that
will
serve
as
the
key
texts
that
inform
my
project.

Back
in
2004,
the
iPod
ads
made
a
utopian
gesture
by
offering
us
a
magnificently

vibrant
but
conveniently
color-‐blind
vision
of
twenty-‐first
century
America.
The
iPod
People

exist
in
a
world
of
dazzling
hues,
but
they
themselves
have
no
color,
thus
removing
them

from
the
complexities
and
tensions
that
make
contemporary
race
relations
so
fraught.
In

this
playful
universe,
the
solution
for
harmony
is
simply
to
keep
on
dancing.
There
may
be

insoluble
issues
of
race
and
gender,
and
confounding
questions
of
cultural
authenticity,
but

if
just
we
keep
dancing,
everything
will
work
out.
This
is
the
philosophy
that
mobilizes

every
Formula
Dance
Film,
a
mentality
that
is
at
once
charming
and
frustrating
in
its
very

optimism,
entertaining
in
its
vitality
and
yet
disturbing
in
its
blithe
erasures.
The
increasing

popularity
and
financial
viability
of
these
films
demonstrate
that
this
genre
is
in
no
danger

of
fading,
and
it
therefore
merits
a
new
level
of
exploration,
classification,
and
analysis.

244

2.
Literature
Review

This
literature
review
unites
works
that
address
dance,
race,
and,
racialized
performance,

and
I
will
be
highlighting
and
examining
the
most
productive
paths
of
inquiry,
as
well
as
suggesting

spaces
for
further
investigation
and
gaps
in
the
current
studies.
While
most
dance
and
performance

theory
texts
deal
with
the
body
and
gender,
race
is
a
relatively
new
preoccupation,
and
recent
works

typically
address
historically
situated
moments
of
racial
performance,
or
explore
contemporary

forms,
most
conspicuously
with
blackness
and
hip-‐hop
culture.
Current
works
tends
to
be
divided
by

race,
(white,
black,
Latino,
etc.),
and
while
this
is
useful
for
taxonomic
purposes,
this

compartmentalization
can
be
limiting
and
we
need
to
look
at
how
the
performing
raced
bodies

actually
interact
within
the
same
text,
and
how
marginality
and
the
Other
are
defined
in
contrast
to

the
dominant
standard.
In
order
to
encompass
the
rhetoric
and
media
representation
of
our

particular
pop
culture
moment,
attention
must
be
paid
to
the
intersections
of
different
races
as
well

as
the
issue
of
(commercialized)
multiculturalism
and
commodified
ethnicity.
Several
of
the
texts

discussed
below
deal
with
the
foregrounding
and
selling
of
fetishized
difference,
which
necessitates

focus
on
more
recent
cultural
products
like
commercial
cinema,
including
newer
intercultural
texts

and
mainstream
youth-‐oriented
films.
What
should
become
increasingly
evident
in
this
review
is
that

while
certain
authors
incorporate
individual
films
from
my
proposed
cycle,
none
have
yet
to
organize

and
analyze
the
urban
dance
genre
as
a
whole
or
recognize
it
as
such:
The
Formula
Dance
Film
is
a

distinctive
and
ever-‐expanding
cycle
with
its
own
set
of
representational
codes
that
have
gained

accretive
meaning
over
the
last
decade.
My
interventions
will
begin
by
first
acknowledging
the

existence
and
then
demonstrating
the
importance
of
this
twenty-‐first
century
genre.

The
Black
Dancing
Body:
A
Geography
From
Cool
to
Coon,
Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild

In
what
is
perhaps
the
most
unique
recent
entry
in
the
field
of
dance
studies,
Brenda
Dixon

Gottschild’s
The
Black
Dancing
Body
is
provocative
yet
also
disappointing,
given
its
immense

potential
and
the
relative
dearth
of
work
on
this
contentious
topic.
Within
the
confines
of
concert

dance
and
theatrical
practices,
skin
color
and
race
are
often
met
with
a
deafening
silence,
a
tacitly

acknowledged
elephant
on
the
stage.
Issues
of
so-‐called
colorblind
casting,
and
even
such

fundamental
concerns
as
lighting
and
costuming
all
contribute
to
a
delicate
tap
dance
around
the

unavoidable
and
undeniable
fact
of
race
and
visual
difference.
Taking
this
admittedly
sensitive
and

taboo
topic
as
her
starting
point,
Gottschild
explores
the
history,
public
perception,
and
attendant

management
of
the
black
dancing
body
in
her
unorthodox
text.
Far
from
shying
away
from
the

incendiary
elements
or
attempting
to
assume
a
neutral
objective
stance,
Gottschild
fully
embraces

245

and
foregrounds
her
identity
as
a
black
woman
and
dancer,
as
evinced
by
the
book’s
title
and
her

pointed
use
of
the
word
“coon,”
which
she
explains
is
a
gesture
of
recuperation.
She
reveals
an

unflinching
willingness
to
“go
there”
and
discuss
the
especially
thorny
issues
of
black
physicality
and

physiognomy,
including
hair,
skin,
and
especially
the
equally
maligned
and
celebrated
buttocks.
Her

approach
and
writing
style
is
apposite
in
that
it
reflects
the
experimental
and
renegade
nature
of
her

project
as
a
whole:
rather
than
chapters,
she
refers
to
the
section
as
“latitudes,”
in
keeping
with
the

cartography
theme
that
literally
maps
the
terrain
of
the
black
body,
including
sections
called,

“Mapping
the
Territories
[Feet,
Butt,
Skin/Hair]”
and
“The
Continent
[Soul/Spirit,
Blood
Memories,

Spirit
Dances]”.

By
her
own
admission,
Gottschild
eschews
traditional
academic
writing
and
organizational

style
in
favor
of
a
more
organic
expression,
exemplified
by
the
candid
interviews
that
provide
much

of
the
content
and
commentary.
However
this
very
looseness,
while
making
for
an
original
and

enlightening
text,
also
becomes
the
key
weakness
in
terms
of
scholarly
progress.
Ultimately

Gottschild
misses
an
opportunity
and
may
even
inadvertently
contribute
to
some
of
the
stigmatizing

binary
perceptions
about
black
physicality
and
black
dance.
The
fact
that
she
chooses
to
write
in
a

more
flowing,
discursive,
contemplative
style,
and
that
she
relies
on
anecdotal
testimony
may

actually
replicate
stereotypical
notions
about
black
culture
being
linked
to
the
"natural”
and
to
oral

tradition.
While
this
is
not
untrue
(African
American
culture
is
heavily
reliant
on
orality
and
shared

stories),
by
framing
this
important
topic
in
such
a
stylized,
folkloric
manner,
Gottschild
may
counter-‐
intuitively
serve
to
undermine
the
purpose
of
her
work.
There
needs
to
be
an
in-‐depth
theoretical

discussion
of
black
physicality
in
terms
of
performance
studies,
and
while
it
is
commendable
to
bring

up
these
touchy
topics,
her
reliance
on
interviews
feels
like
a
deflection
that
diverts
the
matter
to
one

of
the
personal,
the
individual,
and
the
sentimental,
making
her
more
of
a
documentarian
or

ethnographer
than
a
theorist.
It
becomes
easier
to
dismiss
the
facts
when
they
are
presented
as

colloquial
interviews
that
are
humorous,
casual,
and
decidedly
vernacular,
which
divests
her
work
of

argumentative
heft—it
becomes
a
collection
of
stories
rather
than
a
real
exploration
of
the
issues.
In

this
sense,
The
Black
Dancing
Body
comes
across
as
a
presentation
without
summation
or
conclusion.

Granted,
she
is
working
within
an
amorphous
landscape
without
easy
or
concrete
answers,
but
there

is
no
sense
of
culmination
or
direction;
it
is
more
of
a
meandering
journey,
albeit
a
fascinating
one.

Moreover,
in
regards
to
the
interventions
that
I
intend
to
introduce
with
my
project,

Gottschild’s
book
does
not
engage
in
any
way
with
media
products
and
popular
culture.
While
she

never
claims
to
address
this
area
(her
work
is
focused
on
concert
dance
and
the
experience
of

246

professional
entertainers)
the
presence
of
the
black
dancing
body
on
screen
is
so
fundamental
to
our

understanding
of
racialized
bodies
and
performativity
that
any
discussion
about
the
black
body
must

account
for
topics
of
visual
representation
and
media
products;
the
insular
world
of
theatrical
dance

cannot
fully
encompass
or
explain
the
myriad
ways
the
black
body
is
coded
and
commodified.
As

such
The
Black
Dancing
Body
is
a
useful
companion
piece
to
any
research
on
black
performance,
but

it
is
more
of
a
complementary
addendum
then
an
analytical
stand-‐alone.
In
my
work,
I
seek
to

address
the
uncomfortable
issues
of
black
physicality
not
simply
as
a
lived
reality
but
as
a
constantly

disseminated
element
of
mass
media.

The
films
under
discussion
in
my
proposed
cycle
are
all
based
on
historically
rooted
and

culturally
ingrained
perceptions
and
beliefs
about
the
black
dancing
body,
which
include
physical

markers
of
corporeal
difference.
My
goal
is
to
incorporate
Gottschild's
uncompromising
and
fearless

engagement
with
the
myths
and
realities
of
the
black
body,
but
extend
that
into
the
field
of
cinema

and
representation,
where
such
myths
gain
the
most
persuasive
power
by
inserting
themselves
into

our
everyday
lives,
camouflaged
as
harmless,
pleasurable
entertainment.
It
is
my
intention
to
use

Gottschild's
framework
as
a
starting
point
for
a
more
theoretically
based
and
inclusive
discussion
of

media
products.

Dying
Swans
and
Madmen:
Ballet,
the
Body,
and
Narrative
Cinema,
Adrienne
McLean

The
most
notable
work
on
ballet
in
relation
to
cinema
studies
is
Adrienne
McLean’s
Dying

Swans
and
Madmen.
In
this
impressive
and
heavily
researched
work,
McLean
combines
an
in-‐depth

historiography
of
ballet
films
with
a
gender-‐inflected
approach
in
codifying
and
pathologizing
the

figure
of
the
ballerina.
While
not
all
dance
films
cleave
to
this
model,
the
trope
of
the
mad
ballerina

has
become
so
familiar
as
to
be
constitutive
of
the
genre
itself—from
The
Red
Shoes
(1948)
to
Black

Swan
(2010),
we
are
habituated
to
the
spectacle
of
female
hysteria
and
the
extravagance
of
artistic

madness,
and
the
ethereal
ballerina
has
become
a
metonym
for
dedication,
passion,
morbidity,
and

even
insanity.
Although
McLean
delves
into
representations
of
male
dancers
and
different
iterations

of
the
dance
film
subgenre,
she
is
at
her
most
powerful
and
persuasive
when
she
builds
on
the

recurrent
cinematic
representations
of
the
ballerina
that
associate
her
with
swans
and
mortality,

meaning
that
she
is
corporeal
and
yet
etherealized,
and
inevitably
shrouded
by
the
specter
of
death.

Much
of
this
relates
to
the
body
and
studies
of
body
politics,
especially
in
that
the
ballerina’s

body
is
a
besieged
but
fragile
site
of
contestation.
A
waif
by
definition,
delicate
at
best
and
anemic

and
deathly
at
worst,
her
body
is
both
her
instrument
and
her
enemy.
Many
ballet
storylines
in

247

contemporary
cinema
focus
on
eating
disorders,
and
even
when
the
body
is
not
constructed
as
an

adversary
that
must
be
controlled
or
diminished,
the
ballet
body
is
still
portrayed
as
one
of
fragility

and
precariousness;
one
that
is
easily
assaulted,
and
always
at
the
precipice
of
crisis
and
decay.

McLean’s
chronological
schema
is
more
than
a
useful
organizational
principle-‐-‐it
shows
both
the

evolution
and
remarkable
consistency
of
the
genre
codes
and
its
portrayal
of
women.
Even
as
passing

time
and
modernity
allow
for
varied
thematic
content,
the
ballerina
remains
unalterably
a
tragic

figure,
bound
by
her
body
and
yet
yearning
to
transcend
it
through
art,
or
to
force
her
body
into

preternatural
contortion
and
perfection.
Bodily
control
is
of
the
utmost
importance,
whether
that
is

simply
chronicling
the
rigorous,
even
obsessive
practice
routines
of
the
professional
dancer,
or

voyeuristically
watching
the
pain
that
she
inflicts
upon
herself.
In
film,
this
self-‐inflicted
pain

encourages
the
audience
to
gain
a
sort
of
haptic
and
even
sadistic
pleasure
in
seeing
horribly

blistered,
bloodied
feet
imprisoned
in
pointe
shoes,
or
watching
the
ballerina
control
her
body,
tame

it,
and
remove
any
fleshy
femininity
to
become
the
otherworldly
waif.

Understandably,
McLean
focuses
on
white
femininity,
not
only
as
her
chosen
topic
but
for
the

simple
reason
that
ballerinas
have
been
almost
exclusively
white
in
cinematic
representation.
This

constitutes
a
significant
limitation,
and
her
work
could
benefit
from
a
further
discussion
of
race,
or

rather
its
present-‐absence
in
the
ballet
subgenre.
While
minority
representations
of
ballerinas
are

admittedly
few
and
far
between,
the
research
and
work
I
propose
could
be
deployed
productively
in

association
with
works
on
minority
femininity
and
dance.
Locating
instances
of
ballet-‐dancing

minorities
at
once
highlights
the
constructed
exclusivity
of
ballet
as
an
art
form,
as
well
as
opening

up
new
spaces
for
exploring
and
then
dispelling
racialized
assumptions
about
dance.
Additionally,
as

with
all
the
other
works
in
this
literature
review,
McLean
mentions
several
films
from
the
Formula

Dance
canon
in
passing
and
without
relating
them
to
a
larger
trend
and
crystallizing
genre.

Admittedly,
McLean's
proposed
focus
is
on
the
body
of
the
white
ballerina
(who
is
always-‐already

white
by
default),
but
given
that
whiteness
is
defined
by
its
very
antinomy
to
the
Other
and
by
its

proximity
to
the
non-‐white,
it
seems
that
more
consideration
and
attention
should
be
paid
to
issues

of
race.
The
concept
of
the
fragile
white
ballerina
would
not
exist
without
an
obverse
against
which

to
compare
and
contrast,
and
the
fact
that
the
black
ballerina
is
such
a
total
anomaly
does
not
get

addressed
in
McLean’s
work,
which
ultimately
upholds
the
cultural
hierarchies
and
assumptions

about
ballet
that
she
professes
to
question
and
deconstruct.
Her
focus
on
the
cinematic

representations
of
the
white
ballerina
is
not
a
misstep
per
se
or
a
failing
on
her
part—rather,
she
is

working
within
a
demographic
reality
that
is
inevitably
dictated
by
the
films
themselves:
from
Anna

Pavlova
in
The
Dying
Swan
to
Natalie
Portman
in
Black
Swan,
filmic
ballerinas
are
always
white,
and

248

women
of
color
are
simply
not
seen
as
participants
in
the
ballet
world.
To
discuss
the
ballerina
as

implicitly
white
then
becomes
a
necessity,
but
McLean
might
have
acknowledged
that
very

implication
and
explored
it
further.

As
a
scholar
and
one
preoccupied
with
corporeality,
McLean
could
have
profitably
discussed

the
racialized
dancing
body
and
addressed
that
absence.
This
is
a
gap
in
her
work
that
I
can

supplement,
as
my
research
looks
at
both
the
white
ballerina
and
her
shadowed
Other.
In
what
I

consider
a
potential
oversight,
when
mentioning
urban
dance
films
McLean
lumps
together

Flashdance
(1983),
Save
the
Last
Dance
(2001),
and
Honey
(2003)
without
differentiating
their

distinct
positions
in
the
genre
and
its
evolution.
Released
in
the
1980s,
Flashdance
is
certainly
key
in

establishing
patterns
for
the
early
stages
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
but
it
is
entirely
different
from

the
millennial
films—a
temporal
shift
that
I
will
fully
delineate
in
my
historical
background
of
the

Formula
Dance
genesis.
Similarly,
in
a
slightly
reductive
statement,
she
references
race
as
if
it
were
a

secondary
concern
rather
than
the
central
and
energizing
force
of
an
entire
film
cycle,
“What
is

perhaps
most
interesting
about
the
recent
films
is
the
way
that
the
race
of
the
ballet
dancer
is
no

longer
treated
as
any
sort
of
barrier.”
1

I
would
argue
that
this
is
not
quite
the
truth,
or
rather,
it
is
an

appealing
half-‐truth
that
simultaneously
captures
and
yet
misses
the
point
of
millennial
racial

representation.
To
suggest
that
the
ballerina’s
race
is
no
longer
an
issue
not
only
denies
the
facts

(there
are
still
no
black
ballerinas
depicted
with
any
regularity
in
the
media),
it
also
reifies
prevailing

multicultural
rhetoric
about
race
simply
not
mattering
anymore,
about
boundaries
and
limitations

disappearing.
In
this
sense,
for
all
its
interesting
provocations
about
the
traumatized
female
body,

Dying
Swans
and
Madmen
ultimately
continues
the
bifurcated,
binary
thinking
of
white/black
and

ballet/hip-‐hop,
and
it
could
benefit
from
a
deeper
exploration
of
race
and
racialized
bodies.

Dance
and
the
Hollywood
Latina:
Race,
Sex,
and
Stardom,
Priscilla
Pena
Ovalle

Conversely,
Ovalle's
entertaining
and
tightly
crafted
book
Dance
and
the
Hollywood
Latina
is

all
about
race,
but
lacks
the
lexical
precision
that
comes
from
familiarity
with
and
expertise
in
dance.

It
is
however,
an
important
work
on
the
intersection
of
race
and
dance
and
it
serves
as
a
productive

model
for
my
project.
Deftly
navigating
between
theoretical
sophistication
and
literary
verve,

Ovalle’s
book
is
an
accessible
exploration
of
race,
gender,
and
the
heavily
weighted
cinematic
image

of
the
brown
female
body
in
motion.
Combining
archival
research
with
intensive
theory,
Ovalle

1

Adrienne
McLean,
Dying
Swans
and
Mad
Men
(Newark:
Rutgers
University
Press,
2008),

245.

249

provides
both
a
comprehensive
historiography
of
dancing
Latinas
in
film,
and
a
prescient
look
at

their
representational
evolution.
This
journey
has
led
us
to
our
current
cultural
moment
that

romanticizes
and
segregates
the
figure
of
the
sensual
fiery
Latina,
who
despite
shifting
contexts
and

preoccupations
has
maintained
a
remarkable
(even
dismaying)
consistency
and
currency.
Ovalle’s

most
powerful
and
resonant
contention
is
that
the
Latina
serves
as
a
liminal
figure
who
negotiates

the
poles
of
race
in
America,
namely
the
often
incommensurate
binaries
of
black
and
white.

Additionally,
the
Latina’s
very
physicality
allows
her
a
more
fluid
movement
within
racial
categories

than
that
of
her
darker
minority
counterparts.
To
explore
this
phenomenon,
Ovalle
relies
on
the

terms
“in-‐betweenness”
and
“racial
mobility,”
and
she
uses
them
frequently
throughout.
In-‐
betweenness
demarcates
the
ambiguously
racialized
space
that
Latinas
occupy
in
the
hierarchy
of

visual
representation,
“Oscillating
between
the
normalcy
of
whiteness
and
the
exoticism
of
blackness,

Latinas
function
as
in-‐between
bodies
to
mediate
and
maintain
the
racial
status
quo”.
2

While
the
idea

of
brown
females
existing
as
a
sort
of
palatable
safe
zone
between
the
races
has
been
extant
for
some

time,
Ovalle
has
gone
beyond
that
observation
in
an
analysis
of
what
exactly
makes
them
a
safer

minority
and
how
such
constructions
are
implemented.
The
concept
of
in-‐betweeness
has
been

especially
instrumental
to
my
writing
and
research,
since
fusion
is
at
the
heart
of
the
Formula
Dance

Film
ethos:
whether
it
be
through
interracial
romance,
mixed-‐race
characters,
or
cultural

appropriation,
the
genre
places
definitional
emphasis
on
synthesis,
and
in
its
more
utopian
efforts,

these
films
encourage
coalescence,
even
while
they
maintain
binaries
and
borders.

In
terms
of
style,
Ovalle
shows
a
warmth
and
genuine
investment
in
the
topic,
which
allows

her
to
bridge
academic
jargon
with
the
fervor
of
a
politicized
clarion
call.
Although
she
maintains
a

scholarly
objectivity,
we
are
ultimately
left
in
no
doubt
that
she
is
passionate
about
and
personally

invested
in
the
subject.
A
weak
point
in
the
text
is
Ovalle’s
own
self-‐professed
lack
of
expertise
in
the

dance
field.
She
admits
in
her
introduction
that
the
technical
aspects
of
dance
are
not
her
forte,
which

sometimes
proves
a
frustration
in
her
descriptive
or
synoptic
paragraphs
because
she
will
use
rather

vague
adjectives
and
descriptions
of
dance
moves
that
do
not
fully
capture
the
moment
or
convey
the

technical
mastery
or
improvisational
freedom
of
the
dancer.
Ovalle
is
aware
that
dance
analysis
is

not
her
métier,
but
the
book
occasionally
suffers
for
it
when
she
attempts
close
textual
analysis
of
a

dance
sequence
and
has
to
rely
on
unclear,
unspecified
terms
that
do
not
properly
describe
the

choreography,
requisite
skill
level,
etc.
Ovalle’s
prose
needs
more
accurate
and
intelligible

2

Priscilla
Pena
Ovalle,
Dance
and
the
Hollywood
Latina:
Race,
Sex,
and
Stardom
(Newark:

Rutgers
University
Press,
2009),
18.

250

terminology,
not
only
for
the
reader
with
a
dance
background
(who
may
be
underwhelmed)
but
for

the
lay
reader
without
any
dance
experience,
who
may
be
simply
confused.

Because
the
dance
world
is
a
complex
combination
of
art,
profession,
and
subculture,
it
has
a

necessarily
prolific
and
niche-‐specific
vocabulary,
from
the
moves,
to
the
accoutrement,
to
the

practitioners,
and
every
dance
form
has
its
own
completely
unique
set
of
terms.
Consequently,
any

work
on
dance
should
be
bolstered
by
a
familiarity
with
terminology,
coupled
by
an
ease
and

transparency
in
presenting
this
often
arcane
information
to
the
general
reading
public.
Since
I
will
be

working
in
the
highly
regulated
and
enclosed
world
of
ballet,
and
the
equally
systematized
realm
of

hip-‐hop,
I
intend
to
make
the
passages
on
dance
relatable
and
comprehensible
for
multiple

audiences—my
own
lifelong
background
in
dance
will
provide
the
necessary
expertise,
and
I
hope
to

integrate
this
information
in
an
engaging
and
accessible
manner.
Ovalle’s
overall
structure,

persuasive
analysis,
and
authorial
voice
are
admirable
and
effective
and
will
serve
as
a
template
for

my
own
work,
provided
that
I
can
enhance
her
level
of
investment
and
investigation
with
a
stronger

focus
on
the
dance
itself.

Troubling
Vision:
Performance,
Visuality,
and
Blackness,
Nicole
R.
Fleetwood

In
her
contribution
to
black
performance
studies,
Fleetwood
explores
the
longstanding

historical
and
theoretical
“problem”
of
black
visuality
in
terms
of
representation
and
iconicity.
While

other
authors
have
treated
the
fraught
and
complex
visibility
of
blacks
in
American
culture,

Fleetwood’s
addition
is
uniquely
inflected
by
her
own
theoretical
foundation—an
avowed
allegiance

to
feminist
and
psychoanalytic
(mostly
Deleuzian)
theory,
and
her
professional
background
in
the
art

industry
as
a
curator,
critic,
and
commentator.
The
novelty
of
Fleetwood’s
work
is
her
willingness
to

leave
the
cultural
studies
comfort
zone
of
popular
media
and
foreground
the
contemporary,
if
largely

unexamined
world
of
black
female
visual
art,
“Moreover,
scholars
writing
about
black
visual
artists

and/or
race
and
art
history
have
pointed
out
that
while
black
intellectual
thought
and
public

discourse
have
remained
fixated
on
‘the
problem’
of
black
images
for
much
of
the
twentieth
century,

criticism
has
focused
largely
on
television
and
film
to
the
neglect
of
the
practices
of
black
visual

arts.”
3

As
the
title
suggests,
Troubling
Vision’s
conceptual
underpinnings
are
indebted
to
several

different
sources,
namely,
W.E.B.
Dubois,
W.J.T.
Mitchell,
and
Judith
Butler,
however
it
is
Butler,
with

her
theories
of
stylized
body
rituals,
who
most
evidently
informs
Fleetwood’s
work.
The
chapters

3

Nicole
Fleetwood,
Troubling
Vision:
Performance,
Visuality,
and
Blackness

(Chicago:

University
of
Chicago
Press,
2010),
12.

251

deal
variously
with
artists
in
different
visual
media,
including
painting,
photography,
and

installations.
Due
to
the
relative
obscurity
of
some
of
the
artists,
or
at
least
the
logistical
impossibility

of
seeing
their
work
firsthand,
Fleetwood’s
decision
to
highlight
the
art
world
may
have
an

unintentional
gate-‐keeping
effect.
Even
though
she
is
scrupulous
about
refusing
the
traditional

division
and
valuation
of
high
art
and
low
art,
her
discussion
of
controversial
artists
who
enjoy

exposure
in
New
York
City
inevitably
reiterates
those
class-‐based
separations
of
elitist
versus
pop

cultural
capital.
Consequently,
Fleetwood’s
focus
is
fascinating
if
limited
in
its
accessibility
and

applicability.

In
regards
to
studying
black
visuality
in
popular
culture,
her
most
useful
chapters
are
titled

“Excess
Flesh:
Black
Women
Performing
Hypervisibility”
and
“’I
Am
King’:
Hip-‐Hop
Culture,
Fashion

Advertising,
and
the
Black
Male
Body.”
The
former
chapter
is
mobilized
by
the
concept
of
black

female
bodily
excess,
elided
with
the
now
familiar
notions
of
black
women’s
hypersexuality,
fecund

bodies,
and
generally
wanton
physical
displays,
all
of
which
have
been
alternatively
reviled
and

desired
throughout
American
history,
“Excess
flesh,
then
is
another
conceptual
framework
for

understanding
the
black
body
as
a
figuration
of
hypervisibility.
Excess
flesh
is
an
enactment
of

visibility
that
seizes
upon
the
scopic
desires
to
discipline
the
black
female
body
through
a
normative

gaze
that
anticipates
its
rehearsed
performance
of
abjection.”
4

The
chapter
opens
with
an
analysis
of

two
current
black
female
artists,
photographer
Renee
Cox
and
performance/conceptual
artist
Tracey

Rose,
but
Fleetwood
then
moves
her
investigation
of
female
excess
into
mass
culture,
and
the

celebration
or
censure
thereof,
“Racialized
hypersexuality
typically
frames
the
dominant
viewing

public
as
the
victim
of
the
wanton
ways
of
the
woman
of
color
whose
performance,
while
titillating,

threatens
the
social
fabric
of
white
heteronormativity
and
public
decency.”
5

As
her
embodied
case

studies,
Fleetwood
looks
at
the
body-‐as-‐text
of
Janet
Jackson
and
the
Nipplegate
incident,
and
L’il

Kim’s
music
video
and
lyrical
persona.

As
a
gendered
companion
to
the
previous
chapter,
“I
Am
King”
deals
with
the
(self)

commodification
of
urban
male
blackness,
specifically
in
the
clothing
industry
and
the
rise
of
the
hip-‐
hop
mogul
who
at
once
invokes
and
rejects
the
mythology
of
black
masculinity,
“Hip-‐hop
fashion

companies,
many
owned
by
black
men
in
the
hip-‐hop
industry,
have
turned
the
excess
associated

with
black
masculinity
into
big
business.
They
have
done
this
through
turning
the
idealized
and

4

Ibid.,
112.

5

Ibid.,
131.

252

despised
hypermasculine
trope
of
black
heterosexual
masculinity
into
a
very
popular
marketable

good,
associated
with
a
wide
range
of
fashion
apparel
and
accessories.”
6

These
brands
trade
on
an

ineffable
but
highly
marketable
idea
of
the
“authentic,”
predicated
on
the
belief
that
there
is
a
truly

stable
and
legitimate
street
cred
that
can
be
visually
imitated
through
purchase
practices
and

clothing
styles,
“In
the
context
of
blackness
and
masculinity,
authenticity
imbues
the
subject
with
a

mythic
sense
of
virility,
danger,
and
physicality;
in
representations
of
hip-‐hop,
authenticity
most

often
manifests
itself
through
the
body
of
the
young
black
male
who
stands
in
for
‘the
urban
real.’”
7

Most
interestingly,
studies
of
black
visuality
tend
to
focus
disproportionately
on
the

externalized
creation
and
imposition
of
black
codes
and
signifiers,
as
if
blacks
themselves
are
passive

objects
to
be
defined
and
acted
upon
by
inchoate
outside
powers
(white
culture,
corporations,
etc.).

However,
Fleetwood
suggests
that
there
is
a
complicity
and
willing
participation
by
which
blacks

commodify
themselves
and
market
their
perceived
identity
as
a
brand,
“One
of
the
most
captivating

aspects
of
late
twentieth-‐/early
twenty-‐first
century
popular
culture
is
how
the
once
denigrated
but

utilitarian
body
of
chattel
slavery
manifests
itself
as
the
idealized
fetish
object
of
contemporary

transnational
capital,
often
with
black
cultural
brokers
as
its
producer…In
many
cases,
black
cultural

brokers
market
and
brand
themselves
as
product,
pitch
person,
and
corporation.”
8

Fleetwood’s

emphasis
on
the
commericialized
aspect
of
racial
representation
is
central
to
my
project,
and
her

close
and
conscientiousness
readings
of
public
figures
and
media
products
serve
as
a
template
for
my

work
on
the
dance
film.

“The
Commodification
of
Blackness
in
David
LaChapelle’s
Rize,”
Kathleen
M.
Kuehn

Taking
David
LaChappelle’s
influential
though
highly
problematic
2005
documentary
Rize
as

her
case
study,
Kathleen
M.
Kuehn
addresses
not
only
the
solidifying
codes
of
black
urban

representation
that
the
film
propagates
and
glorifies,
but
also
the
unstable
and
asymmetric
street

economy
of
these
young
dancers
who
have
simultaneously
gained
exposure
and
suffered
exploitation

during
the
production
of
the
film.
Kuehn
argues
that
LaChapelle
walks
“a
fine
line
between
cultural

appreciation
and
cultural
appropriation,”
and
that
his
formal
decisions
frequently,
“bury
hegemonic

6

Ibid.,
145.

7

Ibid.,
153.

8

Ibid.,
128.

253

codes
of
oppression
below
the
surface
of
an
otherwise
emancipatory
narrative.”
9

She
claims

LaChapelle
blithely
operates
from
an
unexamined
subject
position
of
implicit
superiority
and
power

that
he
exerts
over
the
(colonized)
objects
in
front
of
his
lens,
all
of
which
serve
to
absolve
white

responsibility
and
divert
from
the
systemic
problems
that
have
necessitated
such
black
outlets:

This
becomes
evident
through
elements
of
both
form
and
content,
but
also
in
that
the

production
of
the
documentary
itself
is
what
largely
determines
clowning
and
krumping
as

legitimate
and
authentic
sites
of
“black”
subculture
without
ever
directly
addressing
the

social
and
economic
marginalization
that
enable
the
subculture’s
existence
in
the
first

place…[the
film
is]
ethically
irresponsible
to
his
participants
in
its
failure
to
challenge
the

hegemonic
structures
that
continually
reproduce
the
need
for
escape.
Indeed,
LaChapelle’s

film
glamorizes
this
urban
subculture
as
a
fascinating
and
visually
appealing
set
of
coping

strategies
that
are
ultimately
left
open
for
mainstream
appropriation.
10

From
a
theoretical
basis,
Kuehn
heavily
mines
from
bell
hooks’
seminal
work
“Eating
the
Other,”
in

concert
with
her
own
textual
analysis.
She
divides
her
piece
by
gender
with
an
expectedly
deeper

focus
on
men
and
their
performances
of
masculinity,
which
are
inextricably
elided
with
suggestions

of
criminality—the
documentary’s
central
characters
either
have
a
criminal
past
or
they
lionize

dance
as
the
one
outlet
that
has
saved
their
lives
and
kept
them
from
a
recidivist
gangster
life.

Kuehn’s
focus
on
women
is
shorter
and
tends
to
play
up
the
sexualized
component,
or
rather,

LaChapelle’s
construction
of
their
sexuality
e.g.
the
continual
emphasis
on
booty-‐poppin’,
which

is
especially
evident
in
the
“music
video”
interludes
that
showcase
the
documentary’s
young

leads
in
La
Chapelles’s
signature
high-‐key
visual
style.
While
Kuehn
provides
an
insightful
and

rather
depressing
analysis
of
commodified
black
culture
in
terms
of
gender,
her
reading
and

subsequent
indictment
of
female
objectification
may
divest
the
film’s
women
of
any
agency.
I

would
argue
that
the
young
female
characters
in
Rize
have
developed
their
own
choreographic

codes
and
signatures
that
do
not
exclude
them
from
the
expressive
freedom
enjoyed
by
the
male

dancers.
While
sexualized
imagery
is
certainly
at
play
in
the
film’s
construction
of
gender,
Kuehn

may
be
overstating
the
case
and
proposing
a
slightly
alarmist
and
condemnatory
reading
on
the

female
role
in
street
dance
culture.
I
would
contend
that
these
girls
are
not
particularly

sexualized,
or
rather
they
are
demonstrating
a
practiced
and
stylized
type
of
performance
that
is

as
expectedly
routine
as
the
bravado
and
aggression
of
their
male
krumping
and
clowning

9

Kathleen
M.
Kuehn,
“The
Commodification
of
Blackness
in
David
LaChapelle’s
Rize,”

Journal
of
Information
Ethics
19
(2010):
52.

10
Ibid.,
54.

254

counterparts.
As
these
girls
(ranging
in
age
from
five
to
twenty)
perform
a
booty-‐jiggling

stripper
dance,
they
are
mimetic
and
engaging
in
a
series
of
steps,
posture,
poses,
and
iconic

moves
that
are
all
part
of
a
codified
repertoire,
really
no
different
than
a
ballerina
executing
a

pas
de
bourré
or
échappé—the
stripper
dance
derives
from
a
fixed
set
of
moves
that
have
as

much
legitimacy
on
the
street
and
require
the
same
practice
and
labor
as
those
moves
executed

by
the
male
dancers,
captured
in
worshipfully
sweaty
detail
by
LaChapelle’s
lens.
In
analyzing

the
female
hip-‐hop
contribution,
Kuehn
may
unintentionally
perpetuate
the
division
and

consequent
denigration
of
hip-‐hop
in
contrast
to
other
“proper”
forms
of
dance,
i.e.
ballet
takes

practice
but
any
hoochie
on
the
street
can
pop
her
booty.
Similarly
Kuehn’s
reading
of
the
lead

female
Miss
Prissy’s
classical
training
overemphasizes
her
background,
and
the
author
seeks
to

convey
Miss
Prissy’s
dedication
and
honed
technique
by
highlighting
her
classical
ballet

experience,
“LaChapelle
makes
almost
no
reference
to
her
formal
ballet
training
aside
from
a

brief
interview
from
inside
a
dance
studio.
Otherwise,
it
is
assumed
throughout
the
film’s
formal

structure
that
she—along
with
all
the
other
dancers—is
an
untrained
prodigy.
Only
in

interviews
outside
the
film
do
we
learn
that
Miss
Prissy
has
been
a
classically
trained,
well-‐
respected
ballet
dancer
and
teacher
in
her
neighborhood
before
LaChapelle
filmed
Rize.”
11

However,
the
film
footage
itself
does
not
quite
support
this
reading:
Miss
Prissy’s
technique
is

serviceable
but
she
is
not
exactly
a
professional
caliber
ballerina.
This
invocation
of
ballet
as

endowing
the
black
street
dancer
with
a
patina
of
high
art
credence
actually
invokes
and

perpetuates
the
very
binaric
beliefs
about
ballet
versus
hip-‐hop
that
I
would
like
to
complicate

and
question.

These
minor
instances
can
be
reduced
to
hermeneutic
differences,
but
a
work
based
on
dance

must
balance
sociological,
economic,
and
historical
analysis
with
an
equally
thorough
and
accurate

analysis
of
dance
technique
and
performance.
There
is
a
requisite
specificity
and
expertise
needed
to

make
the
discussion
of
dance
as
powerful
as
the
arguments
about
race
and
politics.
This
lack
of

dance-‐specific
expertise
tends
to
be
a
recurrent
weak
spot
in
scholarly
works
that
nominally
deal

with
dance,
in
that
they
are
often
unevenly
weighted
towards
cultural
analysis
without
a
strong

conversance
in
dance
terminology.

11

Ibid.,
61.

255

Appropriating
Blackness:
Performance
and
the
Politics
of
Authenticity,
E.
Patrick
Johnson

E.
Patrick
Johnson’s
work
innovatively
unites
the
amorphous
discipline
of
performance

theory,
with
the
equally
malleable
concept
of
blackness
as
both
an
identity
and
a
shifting
set
of

signifiers.
Johnson
argues
that
just
as
performance
has
been
historically
and
academically
devalued

and
perceived
as
somehow
too
bodily
and
affective
to
merit
theoretical
attention,
so
too
has

blackness
been
typically
conceived
and
maligned
as
being
somehow
primal,
barbarous,
and

antithetical
to
rationality
and
intellection.
Johnson’s
central
thesis
is
that
these
two
fields
can

profitably
converge
to
reveal
the
way
that
race
cannot
and
should
not
be
relegated
to
the
airless

world
of
detached
academic
theorization—that
it
must
be
regarded
as
a
lived
daily
reality
and

importantly,
an
embodied
reality.
He
therefore
seeks
to
unite
theory
and
praxis
by
examining
the

quotidian
aspect
of
living,
performing,
and
appropriating
blackness,
which
itself
is
mutable
and

arbitrarily
shifts
based
on
socio-‐historical
context
and
the
influence
of
cultural
arbiters:

The
fact
of
blackness
is
not
always
self-‐constituting.
Indeed,
blackness,
like
performance,

often
defies
categorization…Blackness,
too,
is
slippery—ever
beyond
the
reach
of
one’s

grasp.
Once
you
think
you
have
a
hold
on
it,
it
transforms
into
something
else
and
travels
in

another
direction.
Its
elusiveness
does
not
preclude
one
from
trying
to
fix
it,
to
pin
it
down,

however—for
the
pursuit
of
authenticity
is
inevitably
an
emotional
and
moral
one…Often,
it

is
during
times
of
crisis
(social,
cultural,
or
political)
when
the
authenticity
of
older
versions

of
blackness
is
called
into
question.
12

Much
of
the
strength
and
totality
of
Johnson’s
work
comes
from
his
inclusivity,
as
he
examines

performative
blackness
and
appropriation
from
the
perspective
and
practice
of
both
black
and
white

Americans,
in
addition
to
openly
injecting
his
personal
experiences,
inflections,
and
responses.
Each

chapter
investigates
a
different
though
interrelated
aspect
of
black
performance,
ranging
from

cultural
texts
like
films
and
documentaries,
to
the
star
personas
of
black
actors,
to
the
micro-‐histories

of
individuals.
With
his
expansive
definition
of
performance,
Johnson
has
the
freedom
to
include
such

diverse
subjects
as
gay
video
artist
Marlon
Riggs,
Australian
gospel
singers,
and
his
grandmother’s

oral
recollections.

Serving
as
a
self-‐professed
ethnographer,
part
of
Johnson’s
project
involves
a
methodological

transparency
through
which
he
foregrounds
his
own
involvement,
personal
opinion,
and
influence,

rather
than
artificially
effacing
them,
“Moreover,
rather
than
fix
my
informants
as
static
objects,

naively
claim
ideological
innocence,
or
engage
in
the
false
positivist
‘me/them’
binary,
I
foreground

12

E.
Patrick
Johnson,
Appropriating
Blackness:
Performance
and
the
Politics
of
Authenticity,

(Durham:
Duke
University
Press,
2003),
2.

256

my
‘coauthorship,’
as
it
were,
of
the
ethnographic
texts
produced
in
this
volume,
for
I
was
as
integral

to
the
performance/text-‐making
process
as
were
my
informants.
Therefore,
in
each
chapter
I
mark

the
ways
I
am
implicated
in
the
performance
of
blackness
in
the
field…”

13

Consequently,
both
the

format
and
the
ideology
of
his
book
reinforce
the
idea
of
race
being
performed
as
part
of
one’s
daily

lived
reality—an
ongoing
performative
process
that
changes
based
on
company,
location,
intention,

etc.
Johnson’s
own
proclaimed
identity
as
a
gay
man
impacts
his
choice
of
topic,
and
the
central

chapters
deal
with
blackness
and
gender,
including
the
protests-‐too-‐much
homophobia
rampant

amongst
heterosexual
black
performers,
and
as
the
obverse,
a
look
at
black
queer
culture.

Appropriating
Blackness
unsurprisingly
deals
primarily
with
black
masculinity—indeed,
Johnson’s

introduction
and
his
confirmed
personal
interest
serve
as
a
sort
of
preemptive
insulation
against
a

masculinist
critique.
Consequently,
there
is
little
focus
on
black
femininity
as
performance,
which
is

an
especially
rich
field,
and
one
that
is
particularly
crucial
to
a
holistic
view
of
mediated
blackness.

While
Johnson
does
not
address
dance
specifically,
his
definition
of
performance
is
comprehensive

and
broad
enough
to
apply
his
work
directly
to
hip-‐hop
culture.
As
such,
Johnson’s
text
provides
a

useful
lens
for
examining
black
popular
culture,
including
the
modes
of
mainstream
(white)

appropriation
and
emulation,
as
well
as
the
way
blacks
themselves
are
often
complicit
and

participatory
in
constructing
the
public
perception
of
race
and
the
codes
of
black
performance.

Screens
Fade
to
Black:
Contemporary
African
American
Cinema,
David
J.
Leonard

Leonard’s
Screens
Fade
to
Black
signifies
an
important
contribution
to
the
studies
of
black

representation
in
cinema
and
it
stands
out
more
for
its
limitations
than
its
strengths,
which

paradoxically
makes
it
particularly
useful.
Leonard
makes
bold
claims
to
differentiate
his
work
from

previous
publications,
laid
out
explicitly
not
only
in
his
introduction
but
in
his
appendix
that
harshly

critiques
the
deficiencies
in
previous
literature,
“In
providing
accessible
critical
analysis,
as
opposed

to
the
existing
literature
that
offers
either
uncritical
celebrations
or
inaccessible
academic
posturing,

this
text
engages
the
themes,
plots,
and
narrative
structures
of
a
number
of
popular
films.”
14

In
some

facets,
Leonard’s
work
and
interests
are
what
I
seek
to
emulate,
while
others
serve
as
an
example
for

exactly
what
I
plan
to
rectify
or
improve
upon
with
my
own
research.
His
organization
and
individual

chapters
are
especially
relevant,
and
they
clearly
articulate
the
trajectory
of
recent
mainstream

13

Ibid.,
10.

14

David
J.
Leonard,
Screens
Fade
to
Black:
Contemporary
African
American
Cinema.

(Westport:
Praeger,
2006),
3.

257

cinema
and
its
use
of
black
culture
and
black
signifiers
to
sell
a
specific
image
or
communicate
a

theme.
Leonard
is
right
in
pointing
out
that
many
previous
books
do
not
engage
in
recent
cinema,

and
on
this
point
I
agree,
since
my
project
is
entirely
based
on
the
examination
and
reclamation
of

films
that
are
not
only
mainstream
and
commercial
but
that
are
generally
derided
and
dismissed
as

mindless
popcorn
entertainment,
devoid
of
critical
merit
or
cinematic
value.
Leonard’s
willingness
to

seriously
investigate
decidedly
pop
films
(as
opposed
to
so-‐called
important
films,
auteurist
works,

and
Academy
Award-‐caliber
pictures)
is
what
I
want
to
bring
to
the
Formula
Dance
Film
cycle,
and
he

sees
the
importance
and
necessity
of
highlighting
seemingly
trivial
movies
precisely
because
they

serve
as
a
coercive
articulation
of
how
we
perceive
race
and
the
way
race
is
deployed
in
film.

Leonard’s
methodology
and
structure
is
especially
productive
and
well-‐suited
for
the
films

and
themes
under
discussion,
and
I
have
found
it
equally
effective
to
arrange
my
own
work
this
way.

The
chapters
of
Screens
Fade
to
Black
are
arranged
topically
and
thematically,
with
each
chapter

heading
covering
a
major
element
of
black
representation
based
on
the
perceptions,
expectations,

and
uses
of
blackness
in
film.
He
then
uses
a
group
of
recent
films
(typically
four)
as
individual
case

studies
offered
as
textual
analysis.
Chapters
include
topics
like
“The
Ghettocentric
Imagination”
and

“Is
This
Really
African
American
Cinema?
Black
Middle-‐Class
Dramas
and
Hollywood”
and
“Blackness

as
Comedy:
Laughter
and
The
American
Dream.”
These
headings
all
capture
something
very
relevant

about
the
way
blackness
is
constructed
and
deployed
in
American
mainstream
cinema,
essentially

telling
an
audience
what
it
means
to
be
black,
resulting
in
misapprehension
from
the
non-‐black

community
and
complicity
and
silence
from
the
black
population,
who
continue
to
have
others
speak

for
them
to
tell
(and
sell)
their
stories.

The
concept
of
a
sanitized,
appeasing
portrayal
of
the
black

middle-‐class
is
especially
germane
to
my
project
and
furnishes
the
idea
behind
one
chapter
on
black

bourgeois
narratives
and
academics.

Another
strength
of
Leonard’s
work
is
his
determination
to
frame
the
debate
within
the

context
of
what
he
calls
the
“new
racism”
and
colorblind
discourse,
which
is
a
topic
that
some
still

resist
and
avoid.
As
part
of
the
current
multicultural
moment,
where
policy-‐makers
and
media

producers
alike
gamely
insist
that
we
are
in
a
post-‐race
world,
the
newfound
admiration
(and

profitability)
of
minority
cultures
could
suggest
that
we
have
truly
moved
passed
racism
and
into
a

rainbow
world
of
acceptance.
This
however
is
a
fallacy,
all
the
more
seductive
because
of
its
utopian

underpinnings,
and
highlighting
and
deconstructing
this
colorblind
post–race
phenomenon
is
at
the

heart
of
my
project.
In
Screens
Fade
to
Black,
Leonard
challenges
this
comfortable
position
of
post-‐
race
complacency
and
argues
that
the
wholesale,
perhaps
misguided
belief
in
progress
masks

258

continuing
inequality
and
contributes
to
what
he
calls
the
“new
racism.”
More
importantly,
he

discusses
what
is
at
the
crux
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film:
that
this
nominal
celebration
of
black

culture
is
simply
the
other
side
of
the
coin,
“New
racism
is
defined
by
the
simultaneity
of

commodification
and
demonization,
of
fetish
and
denunciation,
each
of
which
offers
a
narrowly

defined
inscription
of
blackness
that
elicits
societal
panic
and
fosters
a
climate
justifying
state

violence
against
communities
of
color.”
15

While
Leonard
devotes
a
few
paragraphs
to
this
concept,

that
hypocrisy
and
its
rejection/attraction
dynamic
will
be
the
undercurrent
of
my
entire
project
and

its
importance
cannot
be
overstated,
since
it
permeates
and
influences
every
aspect
of
racial

representation
and
commmodification
in
American
media
today.

However,
for
all
the
passion
and
provocation
of
its
subject
matter,
Screens
Fade
to
Black
is

ultimately
deterred
and
undermined
by
the
writing
flaws
and
Leonard’s
own
polemical
stance,
which

is
manifest
in
the
introduction.
His
writing
style
itself
is
fairly
repetitive,
with
the
same
ideas,

sentence
structure,
and
words
used
multiple
times,
leading
to
an
overall
redundancy.
The
work
feels

generally
rushed
and
could
benefit
from
a
revision.
Leonard
rightly
recognizes
and
accordingly

examines
the
recent
spate
of
black-‐centered
films
and
groups
them
into
useful
and
insightful

categories,
but
the
wide
scope
of
his
filmography
also
misses
some
of
the
nuance
and
subcategories

within
his
proposed
schema.
He
claims
that
the
work
“explores
a
spectrum
of
genres”
16

and
he
touts

this
very
broadness
as
a
strength,
whereas
I
see
it
serving
as
more
of
a
prelude
to
the
specific
genre-‐
based
work
that
I
am
doing.
For
example,
he
includes
the
film
Drumline
(2002)
under
the
section
on

black
middle-‐class
drama,
and
while
it
certainly
does
adhere
to
the
traits
and
tendencies
that
he
lists,

Drumline
is
also
more
closely
aligned
to
the
Formula
Dance
Film
of
my
dissertation,
and
the
fact
that

it
is
a
quasi-‐musical
with
extended
performance
numbers
sets
it
apart
from
the
other
films
listed
in

that
chapter.
As
such,
Drumline
has
its
own
rules
and
codes,
which
Leonard
does
not
address,
since

he
groups
the
film
broadly
in
the
context
of
black
middle-‐class
narratives.
I
view
Screens
Fade
to

Black
as
a
starting
point
for
the
type
of
conversation
that
can
be
had
regarding
black
representation

and
commodification,
and
the
persistence
of
naturalized
racism
in
the
twenty-‐first
century
guise
of

multiculturalism.
While
the
format
and
end
product
have
problems,
the
ideas
are
important
and
I
will

incorporate,
expand,
and
ideally
improve
upon
Leonard’s
contentions.

15

Ibid.,
18.

16

Ibid.,
2.

259

Black
Magic:
White
Hollywood
and
African
American
Culture,
Krin
Gabbard

Krin
Gabbard’s
Black
Magic
stands
out
as
a
key
work
on
the
intersections
of
racial

representation
(or
lack
thereof)
and
mainstream
Hollywood
cinema,
and
it
illuminates
the
recurrent

phenomenon
in
Hollywood
film
of
using
blackness
(be
it
characters
or
culture)
as
a
powerful,
even

preternatural
aid
for
the
benefit
and
instruction
of
white
people.
While
other
authors
have
noted
this

narrative
strategy
and
its
suggestive
(even
destructive)
ideology,
Gabbard
goes
further
with
his

intense
specificity
and
close
textual
analysis,
restricting
his
work
to
exemplary
case
studies
in
the

four
main
chapters.
These
chapters
focus
on
the
multiple
ways
that
on-‐screen
whites
benefit
from

their
black
counterparts,
whether
that
be
seeking
aid
from
angelic
black
figures
or
adopting
a

newfound
passion
gleaned
from
the
supposed
potency
of
black
culture,
in
most
cases
black
music

and
performance
traditions.
In
Black
Magic,
Gabbard
examines
both
the
presence
of
black
characters

in
a
narrative
who
are
literally
magical,
as
well
as
the
canny
use
of
black
culture
(music,
sexuality,

etc.)
to
endow
white
characters
with
intensified
emotional
experiences,
even
when
black
people

themselves
are
not
present
in
the
film.
Gabbard's
assertion
about
the
glaring
yet
subsumed
erasures

of
black
people
in
favor
of
black
culture
forms
the
basis
of
what
I
will
be
arguing
about
the

mechanisms
in
the
Formula
Dance
Film;
similarly,
the
mercenary
use
of
actual
black
characters
to

serve
as
encouraging,
liberating,
generally
benevolent
companions
to
white
characters
is
also
highly

relevant
to
the
urban
dance
genre.

Surprisingly,
given
his
expertise
in
musical
studies,
Gabbard
makes
no
reference
to
or

betrays
any
particular
interest
in
postmodern
musicals
or
urban
dance
films,
all
of
which
heavily
rely

on
black
cultural
forms
and
performance
traditions
for
their
plot
and
set-‐pieces.
In
a
somewhat

random
sentence,
he
mentions
the
2003
Best
Picture
winner
Chicago
in
reference
to
Taye
Digg’s
non-‐
integrated
character,
who
serves
a
role
in
the
cabaret
framing
device
but
is
not
an
actual
character.
17

While
this
observation
serves
his
purpose
(that
musical
blacks
may
be
in
the
film
but
outside
the

action),
it
may
also
be
inaccurate
in
that
he
neglects
to
mention
Queen
Latifah
and
Mya
who
are
black

women
with
actual
roles
in
the
narrative
proper,
although
this
hasty
aside
may
simply
indicate
that

Gabbard's
focus
is
not
on
the
musical.
This
marks
an
unoccupied
space
for
me
to
expand
and

expound
through
a
genre-‐based
investigation
of
black
benevolence
in
the
dance
film.
Similarly,
in
his

17

Krin
Gabbard,
Black
Magic:
White
Hollywood
and
African
American
Culture
(New
Jersey:

Rutgers
University
Press,
2004),
156.

260

conclusion
Gabbard
briefly
mentions
Bring
It
On
(2000)
as
an
example
of
mainstream
Hollywood

actually
confronting
race
and
cultural
appropriation.
18

He
dedicates
one
short
paragraph
to
this
film,

which
I
see
as
central
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle,
given
its
highly
problematic
construction
of
white

identity.
In
this
dissertation,
I
devote
an
entire
chapter
to
the
film
and
its
precarious
balancing
act:

Bring
It
On
demonstrates
a
nominally
progressive
attitude
in
accepting
culpability
for
the
white
theft

of
black
culture,
yet
at
the
same
time
the
film
valorizes
white
characters
as
superior
while
rendering

the
blacks
as
caricatures.

Since
the
“black
magic”
phenomenon
is
present
in
so
many
films,
Gabbard
wisely
restricts
his

study
to
seven
films
rather
than
a
broad
and
synoptic
survey
that
simply
catalogues
these
instances.

To
that
end
however,
the
very
disparate
nature
of
his
selective
filmography
may
negate
an
overall

cohesion,
since
the
only
linkage
is
thematic
rather
than
generic.
The
Bridges
of
Madison
County,
Fargo,

Pleasantville,
The
Green
Mile,
and
The
Talented
Mr.
Ripley
are
all,
on
the
surface,
completely
different

films,
meaning
that
the
rhetorical
power
of
his
argument
must
rest
almost
exclusively
on
the
strength

of
his
contention
about
black
characters
and
black
culture,
as
opposed
to
tracing
a
larger
continuity

between
the
films
themselves.
In
this
sense,
my
work
will
offer
a
more
coherent
focus,
because
rather

than
having
to
pick
a
handful
of
representative
films
to
exemplify
an
ingrained
cultural
phenomenon,

the
films
under
the
rubric
of
my
project
fit
comfortably
in
a
single
unified
genre.

As
a
result,
not
only

can
I
examine
the
insidious
ideologies
(as
Gabbard
does),
but
there
will
be
an
inherent
logic
and

progression
to
my
textual
analysis.
The
films
themselves
have
been
conceived,
produced,
and

received
as
part
of
a
cumulative
cycle,
and
the
stability
and
consistency
of
generic
patterns
that
I
will

establish
will
in
turn
make
my
argument
all
the
more
legible
through
the
evolution
and
repetition

that
define
the
Formula
Dance
Film.

While
my
focus
will
be
more
finite,
I
do
hope
to
emulate
and
employ
Gabbard's
intensely

detailed
level
of
close
textual
analysis,
which
is
one
of
the
strongest
assets
in
Black
Magic.
In
certain

passages
he
notes
and
then
deconstructs
such
subtle
and
fleeting
moments
as
the
lawn
jockey

figurine
on
a
white
car
dealer’s
desk
in
Fargo,
extrapolating
that
this
is
one
of
the
only
instances
of
a

black
figure
being
represented
in
the
all-‐white
narrative
and
literally
white
mise
en
scène
of
snow-‐
shrouded
North
Dakota.

Since
Gabbard’s
purpose
is
to
make
the
invisible
visible,
to
unearth
what

has
been
buried,
and
to
foreground
what
has
been
shifted
to
the
margins,
it
is
fitting
that
his
analysis

brings
in
a
micro-‐level
scrutiny
to
even
the
most
seemingly
minor
elements.
Some
could
accuse
him

18

Ibid.,
275-‐276.

261

of
over-‐determined
symbolism
or
reading
too
much
into
images,
scenes,
and
dialogue
(although
to
be

fair,
any
cultural
studies
scholar
is
vulnerable
to
such
criticism),
but
this
precision
and
focus
is

extremely
persuasive
and
it
forces
the
reader
to
reevaluate
familiar
films.
He
is
successful
in
making

us
reconsider
the
unremarked
upon
in
mainstream
cinema,
making
good
on
his
claim
to
shed
light
on

previously
ignored
or
invisibilized
ideology.
This
is
exactly
what
I
intend
to
achieve
with
my
project

and
it
is
why
I
have
selected
a
specific
and
concrete
canon
of
exemplary
films
to
both
establish
the

parameters
of
the
new
genre
and
to
demonstrate
the
consistent
and
recurrent
patterns
and
masked

ideologies
operant
within
these
films.

Babylon
Girls:
Black
Women
Performers
and
the
Shaping
of
the
Modern,
Jayna
Brown

Simultaneously
a
work
of
recuperative
history
that
recovers
unexplored
instances
of
black

performance,
and
a
redressive
look
towards
the
future,
Brown’s
work
sheds
light
on
previously

neglected
elements
of
female
black
dancing
while
addressing
current
gaps
in
performance
studies.
By

concentrating
on
the
variety
show
circuit
from
the
1900s
into
the
1940s,
she
historically
situates

black
vernacular
dance
and
demonstrates
its
function
as
a
synecdoche
for
broader
issues
of
raced

bodies
and
their
struggles
for
positionality,
both
in
the
art
world
and
society
at
large.
While
firmly

historical
in
scope
and
based
on
archival
research,
Babylon
Girls
still
has
contemporary
currency,

serving
as
both
an
origin
narrative
for
today’s
black
female
performers,
as
well
as
a
present-‐day

parallel
and
cultural
mirror
to
compare
and
contrast.
Brown’s
first
reparative
concern
is
to
redress

the
masculine
bias
of
historical
research
that
has
privileged
male
performers
and
modes
of
resistance

within
a
solely
masculine
frame:

I
challenge
the
male
bias
shaping
earlier
works
on
blackface
minstrelsy
and
the
formation

of
popular
culture.
Too
often
the
creation
of
vernacular
forms
has
been
traced,
and
only

considered
legitimate,
when
produced
from
affairs
between
men.
This
masculinism
is
a

problem
and
its
consequences
are
grave,
as
it
shapes
the
very
fields
we
work
within
and

questions
we
ask…By
considering
how
black
women
dancers,
singers,
and
musicians

worked
and
played
on
the
trans-‐urban
popular
stages,
this
study
challenges
the
tendency

within
studies
of
vernacular
culture
and
its
circulation
to
trace
itself
solely
along
the
routes

of
male
labor.
19

Beyond
the
amendment
of
gendered
biases,
Brown
seeks
to
complicate
the
long-‐standing

assumptions
about
black
vernacular
dance
by
emphasizing
its
living
and
lived
quality—like
Johnson,

she
stresses
the
importance
of
embodied
practices,
and
given
her
focus
on
live
theater
and
variety

19

Jayna
Brown,
Babylon
Girls:
Black
Women
Performers
and
the
Shaping
of
the
Modern

(Durham:
Duke
University
Press,
2008),
3.

262

shows,
the
aspect
of
evanescent
liveness
and
the
transitory
nature
of
dance
is
a
key
preoccupation.

While
many
black
dance
studies
rely
on
semiotic
and
choreographic
connections
to
African
forms,

Brown
counters
that
these
arguments
about
inherited
cultural
antecedents
and
Africanist
atavism
do

not
actually
hold
up,
and
that
American
vernacular
dance
has
always
been
a
pastiche:

My
interest
is
in
black
popular
and
social
dances
for
the
ways
they
resist
containment
but

hold
history.
They
continually
change,
as
people
respond
to
new
environments.
At
the
same

time
as
dances
work
to
record
and
share
experience,
they
also
are
ephemerally
about
the

moment
they
come
out
of.
Studies
of
dance
have
focused
on
the
ways
practices
from
Africa

are
retained
in
modern
forms.
But
I
argue
that
there
are
no
pure,
authentic,
recoverable

moments
of
a
time-‐free
Africanicity
capable
of
restoring
the
body
to
wholeness.
Nor
is
there

a
single
identifiable
point
of
a
dance’s
origins.
20

Brown
joins
her
archival
research
with
theories
of
performance,
as
well
as
post-‐structural

conceptions
of
the
body.
She
argues
that
the
body
is
a
site
of
contestation
and
struggle
for
meaning—
one
that
is
never
fully
fixed—and
she
calls
for
a
more
embodied
mode
of
discourse:

Power
is
performed
between
bodies
and
groups
of
bodies,
and,
as
I
emphasize
here,
is
quite

visceral.
I
share
the
concern
that
we
think
about
the
body
not
as
a
tabula
rasa,
as
a
passive

and
powerless
terrain
upon
which
dominant
ideologies
etch
their
claims
indelibly.
Thinking

about
the
body
in
motion,
and
about
bodies
in
relation
to
each
other
helps
us
to
unthink
this

rigid
version
of
the
individual
body
as
produced
discursively.
Discursive
claims
compete,

conflict,
and
are
never
complete.
Racialized
bodies
wriggle
through,
around,
with,
and

against
these
claims.
21

Brown’s
trajectory
is
more
or
less
chronologic,
with
some
chapters
investigating
popular
(though

nowadays
obscure)
African
American
dance
troupes,
while
others
spotlight
individual
performers

like
Josephine
Baker.
The
title
of
the
book
and
its
reference
to
Babylon
would
suggest
an
investment

in
the
sexualized
aspects
of
black
female
dance,
based
on
entrenched
notions
of
hypersexuality
and

the
come-‐hither
or
even
mating
ritual
nature
of
black
dance.
However,
while
Brown
does
engage

with
the
sexualized
side
of
dance
and
its
elision
with
illicit
alternative
economies
(such
as
the
fancy

trade,
octoroon
balls,
and
prostitution),
she
actually
addresses
multiple
conceptions
of
femininity,

including
female
children,
who
occupy
the
first
several
chapters
of
her
book
with
reference
to

picaninnies,
minstrelsy,
and
the
figure
of
Topsy.

The
latter
chapters
situate
black
performance
in
fin-‐de
siècle
music
halls,
and
Brown
argues

that
the
content
of
these
shows
was
derived
from
antebellum
traditions
and
tropes.
Brown
also

20

Ibid.,
15.

21

Ibid.,
60.

263

explicates
popular
dances
such
as
the
cakewalk
and
the
Charleston,
and
locates
their
respective

meaning
for
black
culture
and
the
significance
of
white
mimicry.
While
she
is
referencing
a
specific

moment
in
the
early
twentieth
century,
the
following
passage
could
just
as
easily
describe
the

twenty-‐first
century
obsession
with
black
dance
idiom:

Black
vernacular
expressive
forms
were
miscoded
according
to
resurgent
fictions
of
an

ahistorical
primitive
body
and
were
to
be
used
as
ritual
correctives
for
the
adverse
affects
of

the
modern
environment.
The
active
miscoding
of
black
dance
forms
was
invested
in

keeping
the
actual
expressive
black
body
as
a
model,
and
creative
black
bodies
in
motion

threatened
this
investment.
Black
dance
forms,
in
the
process
of
“cultural
migration”
or

“transfer”
were
stripped
of
their
deeper
meanings
and
their
complex
spatial
time

registers.
22

Brown’s
trajectory
continues
to
trace
black
dance
through
the
often
raucous
and
heterogeneous
sites

of
variety
shows
and
burlesque
theater,
culminating
in
the
urban
centers
around
the
Harlem

Renaissance
and
the
birth
of
jazz.

Although
white
femininity
is
not
her
prime
concern,
she
repeatedly
addresses
the

inextricable
relations
between
black
and
white
women
and
dance
styles,
particularly
in
regards
to

changing
norms
of
appropriately
decorous
feminine
behavior.
As
the
country
moved
from
the

sanctified,
repressive
white
femininity
of
the
Victorian
age,
to
the
disjunctive
liberation
of
modernity

in
the
1920s
onward,
Brown
suggests
that
black
women
provided
white
women
with
a
template
for

transgression,
which
they
could
at
least
sample
through
dance
style,
if
not
embrace
wholesale.
This

cultural
diffusion
was
not
merely
limited
to
the
public
sphere
of
social
dance,
but
it
also
reached
the

professional
sphere
of
dance
instructors
and
choreographers
who
routinely
scouted
out
new
black

dance
styles
to
borrow
(or
steal)
for
their
own
companies,
establishing
the
all-‐too-‐familiar
pattern
of

black
cultural
absorption
into
white
commodity
culture,
and
as
Brown
reiterates,
“these
moments
of

cultural
exchange
were
not
necessarily
moments
of
respectful
recognition,”
23

which
ties
into
the
one-‐
way
diffusion
and
appreciation/appropriation
dynamic
that
Johnson
and
Keuhn
address,
and
that

will
be
central
to
my
study
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film.

22

Ibid.,
159.

23

Ibid.,
171.

264

Disintegrating
the
Musical:
Black
Performance
and
American
Musical
Film,
Arthur
Knight

While
it
is
primarily
a
historiographic
work
based
on
the
ground-‐breaking
yet
largely

unknown
black-‐cast
musicals
of
the
studio
era,
Arthur
Knight’s
Disintegrating
the
Musical
is
an

important
foundational
book
for
exploring
black
performance
tradition
and
the
ways
in
which

Hollywood
has
continually
linked
black
people
to
showmanship
and
entertainment.
His
work
also

provides
a
point
of
entry
for
my
own
project
of
investigating
contemporary
urban
dance
films
and

postmodern
pop
musicals.
Based
largely
on
archival
research,
Knight’s
time
frame
spans
from

roughly
the
1920s
through
the
1940s,
providing
context
and
background
including
blackface

minstrelsy,
the
coming
of
sound
and
Al
Jolson,
and
concluding
with
the
classical
era
black-‐cast

musicals.
He
leaves
off
with
a
somewhat
rushed
epilogue
that
looks
towards
the
present
day
by

conflating
films
that
as
I
will
demonstrate,
are
inter-‐related
but
totally
distinct,
“Though
there
was
a

decade-‐long
pause
between
1959
and
the
next
wave
of
predominantly
black-‐cast
musicals,
neither

the
black
musical
performer
nor
the
all
or
predominantly
black-‐cast
musical
as
a
subgenre

disappeared
when
Porgy
and
Bess
sank,
when
old
Hollywood
became
new
Hollywood,
or
when
new

‘randomized,’
‘fragmented’
forms,
like
music
video,
flourished
on
TV
and
in
postmodern
cinema.”
24

In

a
hasty
summation,
Knight
then
allots
a
few
sentences
to
what
is
in
fact
a
project
of
much
greater

scope
and
depth.

In
this
last
chapter,
Knight
clearly
senses
that
something
is
in
the
air,
so
to
speak,
but
he
does

not
give
a
name
to
it,
or
properly
delineate
these
films
as
part
of
a
separate
entity,
and
this
omission

reveals
uncharted
territory
that
I
can
enter
with
my
own
research.
He
collapses
several
decades
and

entirely
different
films
into
one
category
of
pop
musical,
“Overtly
or
covertly
integrationist—or
even

polyracial—pop
musicals
like
Fame
(1980),
Flashdance
(1983),
Purple
Rain
(1984),
The
Bodyguard

(1993),
or
more
recently,
the
nontraditionally
cast
remake
of
Rodgers
and
Hammerstein’s
Cinderella

(1997,
made
for
TV)
and
Save
the
Last
Dance
(2001).”
25

While
the
appellation
“integrationist
pop

musical”
is
particularly
apt,
these
films
are
completely
different
from
each
other
and
from
utterly

different
eras
and
contexts,
and
that
is
where
I
can
furnish
the
discussion
with
a
more
nuanced
sense

of
scope
and
development
that
culminates
in
the
birth
of
a
new
genre.

Ideally,
my
work
will
serve
as

a
sort
of
companion
piece
or
sequel
to
Knight’s,
as
we
share
many
of
the
same
philosophical
stances

24

Arthur
Knight,
Disintegrating
the
Musical:
Black
Performance
and
American
Musical
Film

(Durham:
Duke
University
Press,
2002),
233-‐234.

25

Ibid.,
234.

265

and
approaches,
and
we
are
both
intrigued
and
vexed
by
the
unquestioned
and
ongoing
elision
of

blackness
with
performativity,
in
his
case
black
people
and
music,
and
in
my
case,
black
people
and

dance.
My
work
on
the
Formula
Dance
Film
will
continue
Knight’s
inquiries
about
why
and
how

blackness
gets
associated
with
and
eventually
marketed
as
spectacle,
and
how
black
performance

traditions
continue
to
be
depicted
in
film
as
the
high
water
mark
of
“cool,”
even
when
the
black

bodies
themselves
are
no
longer
visible
on
screen.

The
works
of
the
above
scholars
prove
indispensable
and
form
a
catalogue
of
either
specified

instances
of
racialized
dance,
or
examples
of
the
white
mainstream
commodifying
and
consuming

urban
blackness.
However,
I
seek
to
combine
these
approaches
by
looking
directly
at
film
texts
that

encompass
this
fraught
concept
of
hybridity.
As
cultural
products,
these
contemporary
films
are

intended
to
be
consumed
by
a
diverse
audience,
but
they
ultimately
cater
to
the
desire
for
safely

tasting
difference,
which
engages
audiences
in
the
pleasure
of
witnessing
a
culture
clash
that
can
be

easily
and
spectacularly
resolved
by
the
fusion
of
dance
styles.
I
am
basing
my
contentions
off
these

previous
studies
and
theorizations,
but
the
films
themselves
have
not
been
analyzed
as
a
cohesive

body
of
work
despite
their
similarities
and
undeniable
concretization
as
a
distinct
twenty-‐first

century
genre,
and
that
is
the
purpose
of
my
work
on
the
Formula
Dance
Film.

266

3.
History
and
Evolutions:
A
Film
Musical
Legacy

In
an
era
that
champions
the
postmodern
practices
of
recycling,
pastiche,
and
homage,
we

currently
witness
a
giddily
referential
free-‐for-‐all
where
past
genres
constantly
undergo
revivals
and

reincarnations.
Cinema's
own
history
becomes
a
trove
of
untapped
mines,
ready
to
be
excavated
and

repurposed
by
new
artists
with
results
that
range
from
sentimental
tributes
to
sardonic
subversions.

Some
styles
and
genres
have
managed
to
transcend
their
origins
and
historical
specificity,
effectively

translating
into
a
contemporary
filmic
landscape.
Film
noir
for
example,
emerged
from
a
confluence

of
factors
including
the
imported
German
Expressionism
of
European
emigres,
the
hardboiled
school

of
American
crime
fiction,
and
a
dose
of
postwar
fatalism,
but
it
has
managed
to
persist
and
evolve
as

a
visual
style
and
worldview,
settling
comfortably
into
the
terrain
of
postmodern
film.
Similarly,
the

foundational
genres
that
crystallized
during
the
classical
era
of
Hollywood
production
have

continued
fairly
unabated
and
unadulterated,
making
room
for
topical
accommodations
and
a

shifting
audience
but
still
retaining
their
fundamental
qualities
and
basic
myths,
conventions,
and

iconography.
Romantic
comedies,
suspense
thrillers,
horror
movies,
and
socially
conscious
message

films
have
essentially
the
same
industry
standing
and
popular
reception
as
they
did
in
the
past,
while

other
genres
like
the
Western
have
notably
dissipated
or
have
experienced
significant
revisionism

and
reconstruction.
Although
perhaps
no
genre
has
been
more
buffeted
by
the
vicissitudes
of
passing

time
than
the
musical.

The
incomparable
charm
of
the
musical
is
manifold:
the
sheer
sensory
pleasure
of
watching

moving
bodies
on
screen
accompanied
by
music
has
been
part
of
the
inimitable
magic
of
cinema

since
its
inception.
Some
of
the
earliest
instances
of
captured
screen
movement
were
danced

vignettes
in
silent
shorts,
and
the
advent
of
sound
film
allowed
song
and
dance
to
become
ubiquitous,

both
a
practical
and
intensely
entertaining
way
to
showcase
the
new
technology
to
its
best

advantage.

Once
a
preeminent
form,
Hollywood
studios
used
to
turn
out
dozens
of
musicals
each

year,
and
these
lavish
productions
garnered
both
popular
approval,
as
demonstrated
by
box
office

rentals,
and
industry
prestige,
as
evinced
by
multiple
award
nominations
every
season.
Facilitated
by

the
insularity
of
the
studio
system,
musicals
benefited
from
the
standardized
production-‐line

mentality
of
each
respective
studio
and
its
fabled
units.
These
practitioners
were
able
to
trademark
a

recognizable
and
replicable
style,
endowing
their
products
with
the
sheen
of
first-‐rate
production

values
and
a
variation-‐on-‐a-‐theme
consistency.
Today
however,
the
musical
is
largely
viewed
as
an

antiquated
albeit
revered
museum
piece.
Today’s
film
musicals
are
a
novelty,
a
special
event
as

opposed
to
the
everyday
reality
of
a
moviegoer
in
the
1930s
or
40s.
The
fact
that
2003’s
Best
Picture

267

winner
Chicago
was
the
first
musical
to
earn
the
Academy’s
top
honor
since
Oliver!
in
1969
is
a

testament
to
the
genre’s
current
paradoxical
status:
the
spectacle
and
fantasy
of
the
genre
clearly
still

cast
a
mesmerizing
spell
over
an
audience,
but
it
simultaneously
lacks
the
surefire
appeal
of
a

special-‐effects
laden
summer
blockbuster.
Consequently,
movie
musicals
have
become
a
rarity.

The
musical’s
diminution
as
a
genre
has
been
largely
ascribed
to
the
collapse
of
the
studio

system
because
without
that
regulated
infrastructure,
the
costly
productions
became
a
financial

impracticality.
These
economic
and
industrial
determinants
are
certainly
causative,
but
it
should
also

be
noted
that
changing
tastes,
demography,
and
audience
expectations
also
seriously
impacted
the

reception
of
American
film
musicals.
Seismic
changes
occurred
in
American
culture,
which
are

admittedly
reflected
in
the
dour
and
pessimistic
tone
of
many
modernist
musicals
that
followed,

including
the
darker
work
of
Fosse,
Kander
and
Ebb,
Sondheim,
and
Weber.
However,
no
matter
how

cynical
or
scathing
a
demythologized
musical
may
be,
it
is
still
tied
to
genre
conventions,
which

include
song
and
dance
numbers.
The
most
fundamental
trait
of
what
we
collectively
understand
as

the
film
musical
is
that
people
will
spontaneously
burst
into
song
and
dance.
A
previously
realist

diegesis
will
literally
stop
dead
for
a
musical
number.
This
breach
of
reality
and
its
total
disregard
for

the
limitations
of
spatial
and
temporal
confines
is
part
of
the
genre’s
charm.
Watching
a
musical
calls

for
a
requisite
suspension
of
disbelief,
and
in
the
genre’s
heyday,
audience
viewing
practices
would

have
habituated
them
to
this
breach.
The
so-‐called
reading
strategies
of
postwar
audiences
would

have
instructed
and
eventually
inured
them
to
the
codes
of
musical
integration,
and
a
steady
diet
of

musicals
acclimates
the
eye
and
ear.

Today
however,
the
musical
is
a
bit
of
a
glamorous
relic—respected
with
a
sort
of
benign

tolerance,
but
a
definitively
dated
tradition.
For
a
twenty-‐first

century
audience,
our
viewing

practices
have
significantly
altered
since
the
musical’s
golden
era.

When
screening
a
classical

musical
for
an
undergraduate
class,
the
first
instance
of
lip-‐synched
singing
usually
provokes
giggles,

in
that
inevitable
moment
where
diegetic
reality
gives
way
to
stylized
illusion.
There
is
always
a

moment
in
the
film
musical
where
the
artist
must
shift
from
walking
to
talking,
singing
to
dancing,

and
depending
on
varying
degrees
of
finesse,
this
moment
can
be
magical
or
jarring,
as
Eric

Brannigan
illuminates
in
his
highly
theoretical
work
Dance
Film:

It
is
the
moment
between
one
mode
of
performance
and
another—the
space
where

the
shift
occurs
between
walking
and
dancing,
utilitarian
movements
and

choreography,
between
recognizable
behavior
and
dance-‐like
deviations.
The

anacrusis
thus
occurs
through
the
body
of
the
performer
who
actualizes
the

suspension
between
modalities,
creating
a
state
of
anticipation
that
can
be
carried

268

across
an
entire
film…
The
anacrusis
is
central
to
the
dancefilm
musical
because
it
is

the
film
genre
that
most
successfully
negotiates
moments
where
performative

modalities
coexist:
dramatic,
melodramatic,
or
comedic
acting
leads
into
dance,

sometimes
bridged
by
a
song.
The
success
of
the
number—and
the
film
overall—is

generally
measured
by
the
degree
to
which
the
dance
number
is
integrated
into
the

film.
26

Given
the
contemporary
challenges
facing
a
traditional
film
musical,
one
would
expect
that
a
slick

but
no
less
fanciful
modernization
of
the
genre
would
be
the
solution
to
ensuring
the
musical’s

contemporary
legacy.
This
is
where
the
Formula
Dance
Film
enters
the
fray,
with
its
own
unique
set

of
advantages,
impediments,
and
complexities.
In
its
structure,
outlook,
and
narrative
integration
of

performance
numbers,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
is
the
closest
evolutionary
descendent
of
the
classical

musical.
As
such,
it
is
at
once
beholden
to
the
rules
and
expectations
of
its
studio
system
ancestors

and
also
subject
to
postmodern
expectations
of
verisimilitude
and
credibility,
especially
given
the

updated
urban
angle
and
social
problem
hybridity.
The
new
challenge
faced
by
the
Formula
Dance

Film
is
to
deliver
the
same
intoxicating
thrills
of
kinetic
movement
and
music
to
a
more
jaded
and

less
credulous
audience,
all
while
attempting
to
instill
an
element
of
social
commentary
and
cultural

allegory.
Consequently,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
tends
to
succeed
on
a
formal
and
stylistic
level
with

knockout
dance
numbers,
while
it
falters,
sometimes
unendurably
so,
with
forced
and
facile

storylines,
weak
acting
performances,
and
didactic
or
disturbing
themes.
While
classical
and
post-‐
classical
musicals
boasted
a
roster
of
magnetic
stars
whose
performances
could
carry
a
film,
today’s

Formula
Dance
Film
tends
to
cast
complete
unknowns
who
are
professional
dancers
with
little
or
no

acting
experience,
often
leading
to
superlative
dance
numbers
and
execrable
dialogue
scenes.
This

divergence
between
the
polish
and
perfection
of
the
dancing
and
the
awkward
flatness
of
the
acting

has
actually
become
one
of
the
defining
characteristics
of
this
new
genre,
and
one
of
the
reasons
it

holds
such
a
polarizing
place
in
public
discourse,
with
ardent
fans
and
equally
vehement
critics.
But

to
fixate
on
the
flaws
is
to
miss
the
point
entirely—these
films
are
in
fact
defined
by
their
limitations,

and
the
spectatorial
pleasure
comes
from
our
giddy
acceptance
of
their
narrative
weakness
while
we

simultaneously
revel
in
the
entertainment
value
of
pure
dance.
There
is
a
disjuncture
between
the

popularity,
mass
appeal,
and
longevity
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film
and
the
dismissive
attitude
and

accusations
of
artistic
failure
levied
by
critics
and
academics.
This
disparity
in
reception
as
well
as

the
subtextual
ideologies
of
the
films
themselves,
are
precisely
why
the
genre
deserves
further

recognition
and
study.

26

Eric
Brannigan,
Dancefilm:
Choreography
and
the
Moving
Image
(New
York:
Oxford

University
Press,
2011),
140.

269

It
must
be
noted
that
that
the
Formula
Dance
Film
occupies
a
delicate
position
in
genre
studies:

unlike
its
predecessors-‐-‐the
full-‐fledged
integrated
musical-‐-‐the
Formula
Dance
Film
is
not

technically
afforded
the
same
narrative
allowances
and
breaches
of
realism.
In
a
Minnelli
MGM

musical,
the
riotous
color
palette
and
plethoric
mise
en
scène
support
a
heightened
atmosphere

where
stylized
performances
and
exaggeration
are
acceptable.
In
today’s
Formula
Dance
Film,
such

excesses
seem
more
discordant
in
comparison,
especially
given
the
contemporary
settings,
real

world
locations,
and
undercurrents
of
crime,
racial
tension,
and
social
drama.
A
story
shot
on

location
in
South
Central
Los
Angeles,
New
York
City,
or
the
slums
of
Chicago
requires
more
realism

than
the
enclosed
painterly
sets
of
a
Minnelli
extravaganza,
or
the
glamorized
footlight
world
of
a

Busby
Berkeley
back-‐stager.
All
this
is
by
way
of
an
apologia
for
the
faults
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film,

where
artistic
weaknesses
that
may
have
been
palatable
in
a
traditional
musical
may
ultimately
come

off
as
more
derivative
in
these
new
hybrids.
It
is
also
worth
noting
that
during
the
much-‐vaunted

golden
era
of
musicals,
there
were
products
that
were
equally
formulaic
and
derivative—churned
out

to
the
point
of
market
saturation
and
surfeit.
It
is
only
with
the
clarity
of
hindsight
and
retrospective

evaluation
that
certain
film
musicals
have
been
heralded
as
canonized
masterpieces
and
become

representative
of
the
genre,
while
other
lesser
films
have
been
forgotten.
Today’s
Formula
Dance

Film
has
only
recently
become
crystallized
and
its
status
and
formation
as
a
solidified
genre
is
still
in

the
process,
undergoing
transformation
and
permutation
with
each
new
release.
It
is
certainly

possible
that
film
scholars
will
return
to
this
millennial
output
of
dance
films
with
a
changed

perspective
and
enumerate
the
contributions
they
have
made
to
the
genre
while
investigating
the

complexities
that
went
largely
unnoticed
or
unacknowledged
at
the
time.
It
is
with
this
outlook
of

continuity
and
connection
that
I
trace
the
current
trajectory
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film
and
highlight

both
its
inheritance
from
the
classical
film
musical
and
its
contemporary
position
in
American

cinema
as
both
light
entertainment
and
a
surprisingly
powerful
enunciator
of
cultural
debate.

As
a
uniquely
millennial
subgenre,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
incorporates
the
tropes
and
traditions

of
multiple
genres,
but
the
American
classical
and
postclassical
musical
remains
the
most
strongly

influential
and
visible
cinematic
referent
for
this
hybridized
film
cycle.
Drawing
heavily
from
the

Hollywood
musical
with
its
unabashed
formalist
flourishes,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
also
attempts
to

ground
the
performative
element
with
a
harder-‐edged
commentary
gleaned
from
the
social
problem

film,
alongside
a
montage-‐heavy
competition
storyline
derived
from
sports
films.
However
while

these
films
may
present
themselves
as
gritty
urban
dramas,
they
are
at
their
core,
utopian
fantasies

that
privilege
dance
as
a
metaphoric
union
in
a
purely
escapist
mode
of
entertainment.
With
only

slight
variations
in
emphasis,
the
Formula
Dance
Films
all
stage
and
dramatize
a
culture
clash,
which

270

can
have
multiple
manifestations,
usually
the
conflict
between
black
and
white
culture,
but
also

between
refined
high
art
and
pop
art,
street
subcultures
and
the
mainstream,
or
the
generational

conflicts
between
youth
and
adults.
While
the
latter
cultural
binaries
are
not
only
present
but

constitutive
in
earlier
dance
films,
the
former
binary
of
race
has
been
historically
subsumed,

rendering
it
as
a
present-‐absence
in
most
musical
dance
films:
in
the
classical
musical,
black

performers
are
either
circumscribed
as
specialty
acts
that
are
trotted
out
for
momentary
amusement

without
narrative
integration,
or
black
styles
are
appropriated
by
white
performers
while
the
black

bodies
are
removed.
The
rare
exception
of
the
eight
all-‐black
musicals
produced
in
the
1940s
and
50s

renders
the
discrepancy
even
more
glaring.
This
is
where
the
Formula
Dance
Film
represents
a
new

intervention,
in
that
it
explicitly
foregrounds
race,
or
racialized
movement
and
discourse,
as
its

central
conflict.
This
approach
does
have
considerable
flaws,
and
as
I
will
explore
below,
the
genre

becomes
problematized
when
the
franchises
remove
the
actual
black
people
while
retaining
black

signifiers,
but
initially
the
cycle
serves
as
a
useful
contribution
to
and
rectification
of
the
silencing

and
effacement
of
race
in
previous
dance
films.

Before
addressing
the
newly
added
element
of
race,
it
is
necessary
to
revisit
the
cultural

schisms
depicted
in
the
classical
musical,
which
have
been
transmitted
directly
to
the
Formula
Dance

Film.
In
today’s
FDF,
the
most
common
and
readily
legible
cultural
divide
is
the
seemingly

unbridgeable
chasm
between
classical
ballet
and
hip-‐hop,
and
they
are
continually
counterpoised
as

icons
of
each
respective
culture.
This
mode
of
division
and
ascription
serves
a
narrative
and
thematic

purpose
by
setting
up
an
immutable
value
system
in
the
film
that
encourages
us
to
align
with
certain

characters
while
rejecting
others.
Although
the
racial
binary
has
been
historically
invisible
or

deflected
in
classical
film
musicals,
the
high/low
cultural
binary
is
very
much
present,
and
rather

than
ballet
vs.
hip-‐hop,
we
see
recurrent
examples
of
ballet
vs.
Broadway
and
all
the
metaphoric

associations
that
encompasses.
In
classical
musicals,
ballet
comes
to
represent
European
culture,

aristocratic
or
elite
society,
repression,
and
constrictive
discipline,
whereas
American
social
dance

(such
as
swing,
tap,
and
other
“hoofer”
styles)
comes
to
represent
effusive
improvisational
fun,

democratic
ideals,
and
liberating
expressivity—in
short,
American
values.
This
binary
will
be

transposed
into
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
undergoing
only
a
choreographic
update
as
hip-‐hop
moves

replace
the
Charleston
and
the
kick-‐line.

Beginning
with
a
historical
look
at
ballet’s
forestalled
genesis
in
America,
I
will
trace
its

evolution
and
incorporation
into
Hollywood
film
and
its
contradictory
representation
as
both
a

stigma
of
exclusionary
elitism
and
as
symbol
of
artistic
perfection
and
refinement.
I
will
situate

271

ballet’s
cultural
and
filmic
legacy
within
the
Hollywood
musical
alongside
its
key
practitioners
who

simultaneously
embraced
ballet
and
its
technique,
while
undermining
its
perceived
pretensions
in

favor
of
a
populist
street
style-‐-‐a
tension
that
is
still
visible
in
Formula
Dance
Films
today.
I
will

conclude
with
the
Formula
Dance
Film’s
current
status
and
its
recuperation
of
racial
discourse
that

had
for
so
long
been
ignored
in
dance
cinema.

Democracy
en
Pointe:
A
Brief
History
of
Ballet
in
America

The
implantation
and
evolution
of
classical
ballet
in
America
was
significantly
fraught
and

delayed.
Starting
in
the
colonial
period,
America
was
not
a
particularly
hospitable
or
receptive

climate
for
ballet
due
to
numerous
factors
including
economic,
aesthetic,
and
even
moral
reasons,

which
Carol
Lee
discusses
in
her
comprehensive
history
Ballet
in
Western
Culture:

When
ballet
arrived
in
the
New
World,
it
took
a
different
shape
from
that
of
its

extravagantly
gilded
European
counterpart.
While
there
had
been
a
modicum
of

theatrical
dance
activity
in
the
states
from
1700
onwards,
various
reasons
manifested

themselves
for
its
less-‐than-‐steady
growth,
and
several
factors
shed
light
on
this
aspect

of
United
States
history.
First,
the
art
form
of
dance,
which
was
a
centuries-‐old
tradition

in
European
courtlife,
had
no
breeding
ground
in
the
United
States.
No
tradition
existed

to
establish
its
presence
as
meaningful
in
the
cultural
life
of
the
country.
27

By
the
time
basic
survival
and
sustenance
had
been
secured
in
the
colonies,
the
communities
had

been
thoroughly
cut
off
from
European
theatrical
culture,
and
compounding
this
detachment,
the

Revolution
brought
about
a
wholesale
distrust
and
antipathy
for
what
was
perceived
as
the
effete

excess
of
a
European
regime.
Consequently,
ballet
unjustly
suffered
from
the
accusation
of
being
an

Old
World
relic
with
no
place
in
a
new
country
of
democratic
ideals.
Lee
ascribes
this
inattention
and

open
hostility
to
the
origins
of
U.S.
legislation,
and
she
argues
that
the
Constitution
framers
eschewed

any
association
with
European
decadence
by
neglecting
to
provide
support
for
the
arts,
indicating

that
it
was
not
treasured
value
in
the
formation
of
a
new
government:

The
performing
arts,
particularly
ballet
and
opera,
were
traditionally
associated
with

royalty,
and
being
indicative
of
a
distant
aristocratic
culture
they
were
not
perceived
as
a

welcome
or
natural
part
of
the
new
country
in
1789.
Therefore,
the
most
dignified
forms

of
dance
and
music
were
not
reckoned
with
in
the
creation
of
United
States
government,

27

Carol
Lee,
Ballet
in
Western
Culture:
A
History
of
Its
Origins
and
Evolution
(New
York:

Routledge,
2002),
312.

272

because
they
had
no
previous
existence
in
the
States
and
because
they
were
considered

to
be
offspring
of
a
heinous
political
heritage.
28

This
association
of
ballet
with
elitism
proved
to
have
remarkable
longevity
and
it
is
manifest
in
the

musicals
of
the
twentieth
century
and
continues
in
the
Formula
Dance
Films
of
today.

Across
the
Atlantic,
narrative
ballet
reached
its
apogee
in
the
nineteenth
century
Romantic

era,
as
the
now
sacrosanct
“ballets
blancs”
(Giselle,
Le
Sylphide,
etc.)
swept
across
European
theaters

and
turned
ballerinas
into
superstars.
Russia
and
France
were
at
the
forefront
of
ballet’s
evolution

and
the
combination
of
Tchaikovsky’s
scores
and
Marius
Petipa's
choreography
led
to
canonized

classics
like
Swan
Lake
and
The
Sleeping
Beauty,
and
established
a
solidified
high
culture
imprint

throughout
the
late
1800s.
By
the
turn
of
the
century,
the
avant-‐garde
and
provocative
pieces
of
the

Ballet
Russes
gained
eminence,
with
figures
like
Diaghilev
and
Nijinsky
becoming
the
famed
avatars

of
theatrical
ballet.
However,
this
apparent
cultural
zenith
of
ballet
was
an
almost
exclusively

European
preoccupation—when
America
did
host
touring
companies,
it
was
only
in
major
cities
and

there
is
a
distinct
sense
of
second-‐hand
experience.
The
draw
for
such
performances
could
often
be

attributed
to
the
appearance
of
a
headliner
like
Anna
Pavlova,
whose
celebrity
status
attracted

American
audiences
more
than
her
technical
prowess.
Though
it
attained
a
certain
appreciation
and

following,
classical
ballet
in
America
could
simply
never
become
the
preeminent
form
that
it
was
in

Europe.
In
America,
ballet
would
always
have
to
compete
for
attention
with
the
more
viable
and

accessible
stage
shows
like
revues
and
vaudeville,
or
the
popularity
of
vernacular
social
dances
that

have
historically
held
sway
in
the
United
States.
The
dual
perception
of
ballet,
as
both
stodgy
high
art

and
the
epitome
of
“classy”
entertainment
is
evident
in
today’s
film
and
theater
culture:
we
still

venerate
ballet
and
a
season
ticket-‐holder
has
a
great
deal
of
cultural
capital,
and
yet
Formula
Dance

Films
and
popular
TV
shows
(So
You
Think
you
Can
Dance,
Dancing
with
the
Stars,
etc.)
capitalize
on

undermining
and
deconstructing
the
form,
making
it
streetwise
and
“cool.”
These
contradictory

impulses
furnish
the
narrative
and
thematic
binaries
in
the
film
musicals
of
the
past
and
the

contemporary
dance
extravaganzas
of
today.

Tutus
vs.
Tap:
The
Cultural
Binaries
of
Ballet
and
Broadway

The
binary
of
ballet
vs.
social
dance
is
inextricably
linked
to
the
conflict
of
high
vs.
street

culture,
so
I
will
address
them
together
with
special
attention
to
the
ways
ballet
has
been
deployed

cinematically
and
the
key
practitioners
of
Broadway
dance,
who
both
deconstructed
and
perpetuated

28

Ibid,
313-‐314.

273

this
binary.
Although
exceptions
and
instances
of
merger
and
dialectic
do
exist,
the
function
of

cinematic
ballet
can
be
generally
organized
into
several
major
areas,
each
with
different
metaphoric,

cultural,
and
generic
intent.
In
the
non-‐musical
film,
ballet
was
and
still
is
used
as
a
backdrop
for

dramatic
storylines,
especially
in
the
female
melodrama,
and
the
over-‐determined
iconography
of

ballet
becomes
an
objective
correlative
to
the
heroine’s
passion,
insanity,
or
eventual
death.
In
the

musical,
ballet
has
historically
held
three
different
functions:
ballet
as
a
sort
of
novelty
act
or

divertissement,
not
connected
to
the
larger
narrative;
ballet
as
a
dream
sequence,
fully
integrated

into
the
plot
and
designed
to
heighten
a
sense
of
subjectivity
and
characterization;
and
finally,
ballet

used
as
the
punch-‐line
for
a
narrative
culture
clash,
where
the
supposedly
antiquated
classicism
of

the
form
is
meant
to
create
a
stark
and
humorous
contrast
to
a
free
and
easy
style
of
American
social

dance:

Ballet
itself
could
become
a
code
of
characterization
or
even
representative
of
a
broad

spectrum
of
interpretation:
it
would,
very
shortly,
become
consistently
a
symbol
of
high

culture
and
more
popular,
vernacular
dance
would
symbolize
popular
culture,
and
the

dichotomy
between
the
two—a
recurrent
theme
in
movies
from
Dance,
Girl,
Dance,
to

The
Band
Wagon
and
beyond—would
usually
be
played
out
through
dance.
Dances
of

ethereality,
imagination,
and
dream
would
more
likely
be
presented
through
ballet
than

through
the
other
dance
forms.
29

In
this
mode,
the
operative
binary
pitches
the
ballerina
against
the
hoofer,
or
the
ballet
world

against
Broadway,
and
while
either
side
may
gain
a
mutual
respect
for
the
other,
the
audience
is
left

in
no
doubt
as
to
where
the
values
and
valence
of
the
film’s
ideology
rest:
fun
and
free
American

dancing
is
the
way
to
go.
Admittedly,
for
the
sake
of
organization
I
am
delineating
these
tendencies
in

a
finite
manner,
so
it
is
worth
noting
that
there
are
certainly
instances
of
overlap
and
exceptions.
Not

every
studio
film
pitted
ballet
against
Broadway,
and
in
the
classical
and
postclassical
era,
there
was

an
entire
cycle
of
films
that
embraced
and
glorified
the
ballet
world.
Far
removed
from
42
nd

street

and
footlights,
the
non-‐musical
ballet
films
of
the
era
remain
ensconced
in
the
hermetic
existence
of

the
ballerina,
who
is
portrayed
as
a
fascinating
and
fragile
creature
full
of
mystery
and
allure.
These

films
include
Waterloo
Bridge
(1940),
Dance
Girl
Dance
(1940),
and
The
Red
Shoes
(1948),
among

others.
Although
they
showcase
extended
dance
sequences
and
depict
backstage
life,
these
films
are

not
traditional
musicals;
rather
they
adhere
more
closely
to
the
genre
of
female
melodrama,
and
their

emphasis
on
affect,
sacrifice,
and
doomed
romance
secured
their
popularity
as
“women’s
pictures”
or

“weepies.”

29

Jerome
Delameter,
Dance
in
the
Hollywood
Musical
(Ann
Arbor:
UMI
Research
press,

1981),
87.

274

With
a
narrowed
focus
on
the
ballerina
protagonist,
American
vernacular
dance
is
simply

nonexistent
in
these
ballet
melodramas,
or
if
it
is
referenced
at
all,
the
narrative
suggests
that
these

lower
forms
have
a
sordid
“hoochie
coochie”
connotation,
devoid
of
artistic
merit
and
suitable
only

for
women
who
are
desperate
for
money
and
employment.
In
Dance
Girl
Dance
for
example,

erstwhile
best
friends
Judy
(Maureen
O’Hara)
and
Bubbles
(Lucille
Ball)
become
bitter
rivals
as
their

life
paths
diverge
when
Judy
wants
to
be
a
serious
ballerina
and
Bubbles
would
rather
exploit
her

sexuality
and
gain
fame
through
hoofing.
A
significant
outlier
compared
to
the
rest
of
the
Hollywood

products,
this
film
constructs
ballet
as
a
worthier
pursuit
and
conflates
Broadway
shows
and

vernacular
dance
with
wanton
sexuality
and
sexual
commerce.

Similarly,
the
doomed
heroine
of

Waterloo
Bridge
(Vivien
Leigh)
begins
the
film
as
a
love-‐struck
ballerina,
only
to
be
forced
into

prostitution
after
she
gets
fired
from
the
ballet
troupe,
leaving
her
destitute.
Believing
that
she
can

never
escape
the
guilt
and
shame,
she
renounces
her
army
captain
fiancé
and
ultimately
commits

suicide.
And
as
the
apotheosis
of
the
ballet
melodrama,
The
Red
Shoes
presents
the
world
of
ballet
in

almost
hallucinogenic
fashion,
as
a
landscape
of
such
intensity,
heartache,
and
passion
that
it
literally

drives
the
heroine
to
insanity
and
suicide.
The
Red
Shoes
never
depicts
any
other
form
of
dance,

contributing
to
the
film’s
claustrophobic
and
obsessive
atmosphere,
and
its
elision
of
artistic

dedication
with
madness.

Though
fewer
in
number
compared
to
the
flood
of
studio
musicals,
these
ballet
melodramas

also
contribute
to
the
present
day
construction
of
dance
films,
and
they
successfully
traded
on
the

public
perception
of
ballet,
which
inspires
an
automatic
reverence
in
moviegoers.
I
will
return
to
the

trope
of
the
tormented
ballerina
in
a
later
chapter,
but
it
is
important
to
acknowledge
that
ballet
was

not
unilaterally
trumped
by
vernacular
dance.
However,
the
trope
of
ballet
vs.
Broadway
is
pervasive

enough
to
constitute
a
fairly
strong
taxonomy
of
cultural
binaries
operative
throughout
twentieth

and
twenty-‐first

century
American
dance
films.
Transitioning
to
film
musicals,
the
polarizing
culture

clash
between
high
and
low,
and
between
ballet
and
vernacular
dance
becomes
even
more

pronounced.
For
narrative
and
thematic
purposes,
ballet
tends
to
be
used
for
comedic,
satirical
effect

and
within
the
narrative
proper,
ballet
and
balletomanes
are
generally
portrayed
as
ossified
in

lifeless
traditionalism
and
in
dire
need
of
a
jazz-‐baby
infusion.
Conversely,
the
musical
also
employs

ballet
to
convey
a
desired
tone
and
atmosphere.
When
ballet
is
shown
in
an
uncontested
purist

format,
it
typically
functions
as
an
etherealized
dream
sequence
or
a
pleasant
diversion
meant
to

connote
old
world
charm.

275

Ballet
and
ballerinas
have
been
a
cinematic
presence
since
the
late
1800s
as
the
subject
of

shorts,
but
by
the
1930s
when
the
musical
crystallized
as
a
genre,
ballet
tended
to
hold
a
fairly

marginal
role,
as
most
movies
employed
Broadway
hoofer
styles
like
Ziegfeld
showgirl
numbers,
tap

and
kick
lines,
and
of
course
Busby
Berkeley’s
lavish
and
distinctively
cinematic
set-‐pieces.
During

the
period
of
classical
Hollywood
musicals,
ballet
was
relegated
to
serving
as
frothy
set-‐dressing
or

romanticized
interludes
meant
to
convey
atmosphere
rather
than
showcase
impressive
dancing

technique.
At
the
forefront
of
the
classical
era
was
choreographer
Albertina
Rasch,
a
relatively

obscure
artist
today,
but
a
key
figure
in
incorporating
ballet
into
American
cinema
and
expanding
the

lexicon
of
cine-‐dance.
Though
overshadowed
by
the
outsized
personalities
and
auteurist
styles
of

Berkeley,
Pan,
Donen,
and
Fosse,
she
specialized
in
a
subtle,
unobtrusive
work,
contributing
to
group

scenes
of
stylized
movement
and
dance,
as
well
as
punctuating
feature
films
with
self-‐contained

ballets
performed
by
her
carefully
cultivated
troupe
of
ballerinas
known
as
the
Albertina
Rasch

Girls.
30

While
her
legacy
goes
largely
unacknowledged
in
dance
film
history,
she
was
actually
the

progenitor
of
the
dream
ballet
and
serves
as
a
transitional
point
between
classical
and
postclassical

musical
traditions.
Rasch
had
the
cultural
capital
and
pedigree
to
integrate
high
art
ballet
into
the

popular
art
of
film,
but
she
also
had
the
intuition
and
commercial
savvy
to
modify
it
in
a
way
that

preceded
and
predicted
future
balletic
incursions
into
mainstream
cinema.
Her
whimsical
style

included
incorporating
tricks,
stunts,
and
sensational
costumes,
and
she
gave
traditional
ballet
a

distinctly
flashy
American
flair,
which
is
a
style
that
still
pervades
mainstream
dance
films,
theatrical

musicals,
and
professional
dance
culture.

Another
mode
of
transmitting
ballet
to
the
American
public
in
a
palatable
fashion
was
the
dream

ballet
sequence,
a
hallmark
of
the
postclassical
musical
that
was
popularized
and
perfected
by
the

team
of
Gene
Kelly
and
Stanley
Donen.
The
highly
stylized,
ethereal
nature
of
ballet
made
it
an
ideal

form
to
translate
the
conceit
of
fantasy
and
wish
fulfillment,
as
Jane
Feuer
exemplifies
in
The

Hollywood
Musical:

Dream
ballets
in
the
MGM
musicals
emphasize
either
the
wish
of
the
dreamer
or
they

represent
a
tentative
working
out
of
the
problems
of
the
primary
narrative.
In
those

ballets
which
represent
the
dreamer’s
wish,
the
ballet
foreshadows
in
symbolic
form
the

eventual
outcome
of
the
plot.
Those
ballets
which
recapitulate
the
plot
retrace
the

30

Frank
W.D.
Ries,
“Albertina
Rasch:
The
Hollywood
Career,”
Dance
Chronicle
6
no.
4

(1982):
281-‐362.

276

narrative
in
symbolic
form
to
its
point
of
rupture.
The
resolution
of
the
narrative
comes

on
the
heels
of
the
ballet,
implying
the
dream
ballet
has
been
catalytic
in
resolving
the

film’s
narrative.
Dream
ballets
of
the
problem-‐solving
variety
occur
at
a
point
when
the

initial
dream
of
the
principal
dancer
has
fallen
apart;
it
is
up
to
the
dream
to
put
things

back
together
again.
31

Notable
examples
include
the
lengthy
dream
ballet
in
Oklahoma
(1955),
the
highly
Freudian,

riotously
hued
dream
ballet
of
sexual
release
in
The
Pirate
(1948),
the
recapitulation
ballet
of
On
the

Town
(1949)
and
of
course
the
iconic
extended
ballet
sequence
of
An
American
in
Paris
(1951).
In

these
instances,
ballet
is
strategically
deployed
to
convey
a
sense
of
surrealism;
accordingly,
the

filmmakers
and
choreographers
trade
on
ballet’s
embedded
cultural
associations
in
that
it
is
already

regarded
as
dreamy
and
mystical.
In
this
mode,
ballet
maintains
an
aestheticized
distance
and
aura
to

create
metaphoric
import,
and
significantly,
the
choreography
and
tone
of
the
dream
ballet
is
then

rendered
in
even
sharper
contrast
alongside
the
energetic
vernacular
dance
of
the
film
proper.

The
musical
comedies
of
the
classical
and
postclassical
period
vary
in
locale
and
era,
from
the

cutthroat
backstage
world
of
a
New
York
theater,
to
the
plains
of
Oklahoma,
to
the
bucolic
Scottish

moors
of
a
fantasyland.
However
despite
disparate
settings,
plots,
and
production
methods,
the

American
musical
is
united
by
several
key
thematic
continuities
apparent
in
every
film.
These
include

the
boy-‐gets-‐girl
hetero-‐normative
coupling;
the
pursuit
of
name,
fame,
and
fortune;
the
production

of
putting
the
show
on
the
road;
and
the
camaraderie
of
family,
community,
and
country
in
keeping

with
the
Democratic
ideals
at
the
genre’s
core.
32

I
would
argue
that
the
last
theme
enunciates
the

rigorously
populist
tendency
operating
in
most
musicals,
where
the
idle
rich
are
portrayed
as

antagonistic
or
at
least
as
simply
foolish.
The
real
heart
of
a
musical
is
in
the
working
class
and
the

characters
who
are
genuine,
unaffected,
and
real.
Therefore,
one
of
the
most
effective
and
convenient

ways
to
posit
a
culture
clash
in
the
film
musical
is
to
establish
an
oppositional
dance
conflict,
replete

with
all
the
attendant
cultural
assumptions
and
stereotypes
reflected
in
each
tradition.
In
this
mode,

ballet
and
its
entire
gestalt
can
stand
in
for
European
classicism,
rigidity,
snobbery,
social

pretensions,
and
pseudo-‐sophisticated
artistry.
It
then
becomes
the
job
of
the
protagonists
to

embody
the
antithesis
of
those
traits
by
demonstrating
an
ease,
humor,
spontaneity,
and
exuberance

31

Jane
Feuer,
Dance
in
The
Hollywood
Musical
(Bloomington
University
Press,
1982),
74.

32

Drew
Casper,
Postwar
Hollywood:
1946-1962
(Malden:
Blackwell,
2007),
270-‐286.

277

in
their
dancing.
Consequently
dance
becomes
the
arena
for
a
cultural
battle
and
ballet
vs.
vernacular

dance
becomes
the
central
binaric
conflict.

Race
Revisited:
The
Classical
Era
and
Black
Performers

Returning
to
the
concept
of
racial
binaries,
until
fairly
recently,
minority
performers,

specifically
black
performers
had
been
a
present-‐absence
in
the
American
film
musical.
Their

presence
was
felt,
seen,
and
heard
everywhere
thanks
to
the
often
uncredited
absorption
of
black

performance
tradition,
and
yet
their
physical
presence
remained
nonexistent
or
very
minimal,

marginalized
both
visually
and
narratively.
It
is
at
this
point
a
truism
that
black
culture
has
been

thoroughly
mined,
commercialized,
and
consumed
throughout
American
history,
and
that
fine
line

between
appreciation
and
appropriation
is
continually
crossed.
The
American
film
musical
is
deeply

indebted
to
black
cultural
origins
in
innumerable
ways,
but
the
common
denominator
is
that
these

origins
are
rarely
acknowledged—they
are
instead
effaced
or
subsumed.

The
exceptions
are
the

intriguing
all-‐black
musicals
from
1929
to
1959,
which
seem
almost
like
a
gimmick
on
the
part
of
the

studios,
rather
than
an
inclusive
appeal
to
a
demographic
that
was
still
suffering
under
Jim
Crow
laws

at
the
time
of
release.
33

More
likely,
these
films
were
a
continuation
of
the
centuries-‐long
tradition
of

blacks
entertaining
whites
through
song-‐and-‐dance
spectacle,
a
performative
power
dynamic

spanning
from
the
Cakewalk
on
southern
plantations,
to
blackface
minstrelsy
in
northern
cities

during
Reconstruction,
to
Hollywood’s
Hallelujah
in
1929.
These
all-‐black
films
however
were
the

exception
to
the
rule,
and
do
not
enjoy
the
same
widespread
audience
and
contemporary
circulation

as
paragons
of
the
musical
genre
such
as
Singing
in
the
Rain
or
Meet
Me
in
St.
Louis.

Much
more
common
would
be
the
black
specialty
act
or
“eccentric”
as
Delamater
puts
it.
In

these
instances,
black
performers
(individuals
or
teams)
would
have
an
interlude
in
the
film
to
show

off
their
specific
and
at
times
quite
stunning
specialty
skills:

Eccentric
dancers
in
general
have
often
been
black,
but
with
the
prevailing
fear
in

Hollywood
that
black
performers
might
hurt
a
film’s
chances
of
success,
few
got
the

opportunity
to
establish
themselves.
Those
who
did,
however,
left
a
strong
mark,
for

their
performances
not
only
displayed
their
own
individual
talents
but
also
represented

the
enormous
influence—direct
and
indirect—which
black
dancers
had
on
all
other

contemporary
popular
dancers.
Blacks
had
invented
tap
dancing
as
we
know
it,
and
they

33

Arthur
Knight,
Disintegrating
the
Musical:
Black
Performance
and
American
Musical
Film

(Durham:
Duke
University
Press,
2002).

278

had,
in
turn
taught
it
to
whites
who,
in
their
turn,
became
famous
exploiting
what
they

had
learned.
34

These
performances
ranged
from
the
intricate
soft-‐shoe
syncopation
of
Bill
“Bo
Jangles”

Robinson
to
the
gravity-‐defying
stunts
of
the
Nicholas
Brothers.
The
Nicolas
Brothers
are
particularly

relevant
here
because
of
their
placement
within
the
film
diegesis:
they
tend
to
have
nothing
to
do

with
the
narrative
proper
and
are
simply
brought
in
as
a
diversion
and
disappear
immediately
after.

It
is
also
worth
noting
that
some
of
their
performances
are
not
only
equal
to
but
surpass
the
film’s

nominal
star,
and
yet
they
never
achieved
the
same
kind
of
autonomy
or
fame
due
to
the
limitations

of
their
race.
When
blacks
are
given
screen
time
in
the
musical,
it
is
highly
circumscribed
and

contained,
as
they
are
usually
servants
(dispensing
homely
advice
and
entertaining
white
folk
a
la

the
Mammy
and
Uncle
Tom
figures)
or
they
are
non-‐integrated
specialty
acts,
meant
to
momentarily

dazzle
and
then
disappear
as
the
film
recommences.

This
marginalization
and
visual
de-‐centering
of
black
performers
remained
an
unquestioned

practice
in
the
classical
and
postclassical
musical.

As
the
country
fitfully
entered
the
Civil
Rights

movement,
race
relations
were
at
the
forefront
of
public
discourse
and
national
legislation,
but
the

seemingly
inviolate
world
of
the
movie
musical
remained
more
or
less
the
same
throughout
the

1960s,
due
in
large
part
to
the
industry
predilection
for
lavish
period
pieces
or
insular
backstage

dramas.
Examples
include
cockney
waifs
in
Oliver!
or
My
Fair
Lady;
precocious
children
clad
in

lederhosen
learning
their
scales
in
The
Sound
of
Music;
a
magical
Edwardian
nanny
in
Mary
Poppins;

Mama
Rose
teaching
her
daughter
the
burlesque
tradition
of
bump-‐and-‐grind
in
Gypsy.
All
of
these

productions
were
marked
by
a
spatial
and
temporal
dislocation
from
the
actual
social
conditions

surrounding
their
release,
and
they
existed
in
a
dream
world
that
was
untethered
from
reality
and

upheaval.
The
film
musicals
of
this
era
decamp
to
alternate
times
and
locales,
without
any
suggestion

that
America
was
being
divided
by
racial
discord,
hateful
prejudice,
and
virulent
segregationist

policies.
Church
bombings
and
boycotts
in
the
south,
or
the
landmark
integration
case
of
Brown
vs.

the
Board
of
Education
had
no
impact
on
the
carefully
curated
genre,
as
if
its
delicate
sensibilities

could
not
countenance
or
accommodate
the
actual
fervor,
violence,
and
seismic
shifts
occurring
in

the
real
world
beyond
the
proscenium
arch.

34

Delameter,
Dance
in
the
Hollywood
Musical,
78.

279

Traditions
and
Transitions:
The
Postmodern
Dance
Film

The
modernist
era
was
a
time
of
foment
and
radical
change
in
American
film,
and
the
film

musical—a
stalwart
genre
since
the
coming
of
sound—underwent
similar
change,
decline,
and

revisionism.
Productions
like
My
Fair
Lady
(1964)
and
Oliver!
(1968)
attempted
to
recapture
the
epic

scale
and
prestige
exhibition
of
the
postclassical
heyday,
as
did
less
favorable
efforts
like
Camelot

(1967)
and
Hello
Dolly!
(1969).
These
films
capitalized
on
the
pre-‐sold
aura
of
theatrical
adaptation

and
the
box
office
allure
of
proven
stars,
but
they
represented
little
contribution
to
the
dance

musical.
West
Side
Story
however,
standouts
out
from
the
generally
lackluster
musical
output
of
the

time.
Released
in
1961
at
the
cusp
of
this
shift
from
the
postclassical
to
the
modernist
era,
the
film

maintains
its
position
as
the
high-‐water
mark
of
the
traditional
integrated
musical
through
an

emphasis
on
auteurist
choreography
and
extended
dance
set-‐pieces.
With
its
perfected
balance

music
and
dance,
West
Side
Story
benefited
from
the
productive
alliance
of
Sondheim's
libretto
and

Jerome
Robbins’
choreography,
expertly
restaged
for
the
screen
from
the
1957
Broadway

production.
Large-‐scale
ensemble
numbers
like
"America"
and
“Cool”
still
represent
the
pinnacle
of

film
musical
achievement
in
terms
of
integration,
performance,
and
choreographic
originality.

After

this
point,
the
genre
experienced
a
fallow
phase,
and
while
musicals
continued
to
be
made
into
the

1970s
onward,
they
varied
in
content
ranging
from
neo-‐operettas
to
counter
culture
paeans
and

high-‐concept
experimental
work.
The
output
of
true
dancing
musicals
was
relatively
small,

championed
by
Bob
Fosse
and
his
trademark
isolations
and
jagged
angularity,
memorialized
in
films

like
Sweet
Charity
(1969),
Cabaret
(1972)
and
the
dizzyingly
self-‐reflexive
All
That
Jazz
(1979).

Starting
in
the
late
1970s
and
continuing
into
the
1980s,
the
traditional
musical
film

became
dormant,
but
its
generic
traits
and
narrative
structure
reemerged
in
a
cycle
of
dance-‐themed

movies
that
would
revitalize
the
form
and
lay
the
foundation
for
the
urban
dance
subgenre
that
I

term
the
Formula
Dance
Film.
This
1980s
cycle
takes
its
cue
from
the
classical
era
backstage
musical

while
augmenting
the
drama
with
a
cast
of
teenage
dreamers,
pop
music
soundtracks,
and
kinetic

editing
that
will
become
the
signature
of
contemporary
dance
movies.
Unlike
the
cheerfully
detached

and
decontextualized
settings
of
postclassical
musicals,
the
non-‐musical
dance
film
is
situated
in
a

real
and
recognizable
modern
world,
usually
a
cutthroat
urban
center
where
young
dancers

negotiate
the
harsh
circumstances
of
city
life
that
impede
their
artistic
idealism.

Although
I
will
argue
that
the
postmodern
dance
film
has
incorporated
a
new
level
of

urban
social
realism,
it
is
worth
noting
that
there
have
always
been
traces
of
deprivation
and

desperation
in
the
seemingly
halcyon
musical
genre.
Even
though
the
classical
musical
is
now

280

regarded
as
a
bastion
of
escapist
fantasy
that
is
totally
divorced
from
reality,
it
should
be

remembered
that
Busby
Berkeley
back-‐stagers
deal
in
the
grim
and
very
real
problems
of
the

Depression,
including
young
chorines
selling
their
bodies,
victimized
women
aligning
with
sugar

daddies
for
protection
and
financial
security,
and
the
overwhelming
poverty,
instability,
and

uncertainty
of
the
era.
Consequently,
the
success
of
the
diegetic
show
in
these
backstage
narratives
is

not
simply
about
reviews
or
ticket
sales
but
about
the
very
survival
of
the
company
members.
Under

the
auspices
of
Warner
Brothers,
a
studio
that
had
always
pioneered
grittier,
journalistic
content,

Berkeley
explored
darker
themes
in
his
social
problem
numbers.
In
addition
to
his
famed
geometric

abstractions
and
playfully
mobile
camera
work,
Berkeley
would
always
include
a
socially
conscious

number
that
directly
addressed
a
contemporary
problem.
In
Gold
Diggers
of
1933,
the
number

“Remember
My
Forgotten
Man”
chronicles
the
plight
of
returning
war
veterans
who
have
been
cast

aside
and
reduced
to
nonentities
as
patriotic
fervor
dissipated.
Rather
than
employing
the
usual

cavorting
hoofers,
Berkeley
has
his
male
dancers
dressed
as
WWI
soldiers
who
engage
in
a
slow,

hulking
death
march
while
the
singer
laments
“Remember
my
forgotten
man
/
You
put
a
rifle
in
his

hand
/
You
sent
him
far
away
/
You
shouted
‘Hip
Hooray!’
/
But
look
at
him
today.”
Similarly,
the
title

number
of
42
nd

Street
(1933)
is
surprisingly
dark
in
terms
of
staging
and
lyrics:
the
choreography

includes
a
man
murdering
his
girlfriend
and
then
gracefully
escaping
out
a
tenement
window
as

Berkeley’s
camera
captures
the
act
with
trademark
fluidity,
aestheticizing
violence
as
if
it
were

tantamount
to
Ruby
Keeler’s
tap
solo.
The
lyrics
likewise
emphasize
the
depravity
and
crazed
energy

of
time,
“Come
and
meet
those
dancing
feet
/
Where
the
underworld
can
meet
the
elite/
Naughty,

gaudy,
bawdy,
sporty,
Forty
Second
street.”

This
realism
and
social
problem
emphasis
eventually
became
overshadowed
by
the
polish,

grandeur,
and
subject
matter
of
postclassical
integrated
musicals.
The
saturated
richness
of
three-‐
strip
Technicolor,
the
elaborate
sets,
and
the
impressive
vistas
courtesy
of
widescreen
technology
all

created
a
sheen
of
perfection
unattainable
in
real
life,
contributing
to
the
image
of
musicals
as
pure

fantasy.
However,
the
dance
films
of
the
1980s
harken
back
to
the
classical
era
back-‐stager
in
tone

and
thematic
interest,
leading
directly
into
the
millennial
cycle
of
dance
films
that
form
the
basis
of

my
project.
The
Formula
Dance
Film
not
only
incorporates
the
narrative
structure
of
the
classical
era

back-‐stager,
but
also
the
flash,
polish,
and
dancing
virtuosity
of
the
postclassical
integrated
musical,

all
filtered
through
the
lens
of
postmodern
aesthetics
and
music
video
imagery.
Today’s
Formula

Dance
Film
is
an
eclectic
pastiche
of
multiple
cinematic
influences
and
a
true
legatee
of
the
American

dance
musical
and
its
rich
history.

281

Even
as
the
musical
proper
faced
a
decline
and
a
period
of
stark
demythologizing,
a

concurrent
type
of
dancing
film
began
to
emerge,
one
that
would
become
an
emblematic
cycle
in
the

1980s
and
lead
directly
into
the
Formula
Dance
Film
of
today.
Catalyzed
by
the
success
of
Saturday

Night
Fever
(1977)
and
replicating
its
narrative
of
working-‐class
dreams
and
popular
dance,
these

films
are
essentially
fairytales
transplanted
into
a
thoroughly
contemporary
setting:
the
protagonists

are
not
the
savvy
showbiz
folk
of
a
back-‐stager,
or
the
exotic
characters
of
an
integrated
book

musical.
Rather,
they
are
urban
teens
and
twenty-‐somethings
who
yearn
to
escape
their
current

circumstances
and
view
dance
as
the
path
to
success
and
transcendence.
With
its
underdog
tale
of
a

working-‐class
lothario
and
his
dancing
dreams,
Saturday
Night
Fever
proved
a
galvanizing
box
office

success
and
cemented
the
cultural
viability
of
urban
dance
films.
Although
it
is
not
technically
an

integrated
musical,
Fever
follows
the
rudimentary
plotline
of
a
back-‐stager,
with
dramatically

motivated
dance
set-‐pieces
that
provide
narrative
structure,
including
various
rehearsals,

competitions,
and
free-‐styling.
Fever
also
retains
the
basic
myths,
conventions,
and
iconography
of

the
musical,
and
the
tropes
of
boy-‐gets-‐girl
and
the
pursuit
of
name,
fame,
and
fortune
are
still

evident.

Saturday
Night
Fever’s
disco
music
soundtrack
also
represents
a
powerful
hook
that
not
only

tapped
into
the
pop
culture
zeitgeist,
but
also
proved
a
financial
boon
in
terms
of
industry

diversification—a
chief
concern
in
Hollywood
ever
since
the
postwar
period.
The
Bee
Gees
provided

original
tracks
for
the
film,
insuring
record
sales
and
marketing
tie-‐ins,
and
the
album
remains
one
of

the
best
selling
film
soundtracks
of
all
time.
The
opening
title
song
“Stayin’
Alive”
has
become

synonymous
with
the
film
and
has
the
same
iconic
status
as
Travolta’s
white
bellbottom
jumpsuit.

This
pop
song
component
is
a
significant
departure
from
the
traditional
musical.
Although
the
film

industry
has
historically
engaged
in
cross-‐promotion
through
record
sales,
and
many
musicals
did

produce
hit
singles,
the
scoring
in
Saturday
Night
Fever
is
markedly
different
from
the
typical
“show

tune”
libretto
of
a
musical.
In
the
golden
age,
even
musicals
with
contemporary
settings
would
have

the
familiar
bouncy
showtunes
and
soaring
ballads
from
Rodgers
and
Hammerstein,
Lerner
and

Lowe,
et
al.
These
films
would
eschew
the
popular
music
of
the
era
that
was
concurrently
getting

airplay
on
the
radio.
For
example,
West
Side
Story
was
filmed
the
same
year
that
Dion’s
“Runaround

Sue”
topped
the
billboard
charts
alongside
The
Marvelettes’
“Please
Mister
Postman,”
35

but
there
is

no
hint
of
rock-‐and-‐roll
or
Motown
in
the
fictional
New
York
inhabited
by
the
Jets
and
the
Sharks.

35

Billboard
Charts
Archive,
“The
Hot
100—1961
Archive,”
http://www.billboard.com

(accessed
September
19,
2013).

282

The
story
is
purportedly
about
contemporary
juvenile
delinquents,
but
the
musical
style
of
Bernstein

and
Sondheim
creates
a
separate
sonic
world
that
exists
in
temporal
isolation,
impervious
to
the

trends
of
the
non-‐filmic
world.
In
the
classical
musical,
contemporary
music
and
artists
do
not
seem

to
exist,
creating
an
aura
of
nostalgia
that
permeates
the
entire
genre.
In
contrast,
Saturday
Night

Fever
used
of-‐the-‐moment
music
that
captured
and
crystallized
the
energy
and
vibe
of
the
disco
era,

making
it
a
celebration
of
youth
culture,
style,
and
current
dance
and
music
trends.
By
adding
a
dash

of
romantic
conflict
to
the
mix,
the
formula
becomes
potent
and
infinitely
reproducible.

The
subsequent
cycle
of
1980s
dance
films
expanded
on
the
new
patterns
established
by

Saturday
Night
Fever,
as
well
as
inheriting
the
older
tropes
of
the
classical
music.
At
once
steeped
in

nostalgia
and
simultaneously
au
courant,
Fame
(1980),
Flash
Dance
(1983),
and
Dirty
Dancing
(1987)

all
take
up
where
Fever
left
off
by
examining
the
microcosm
of
young
and
ambitious
dancers,
intent

on
pursuing
a
career
and
breaking
away
from
repressive
external
forces,
including
parental
control,

community
or
academic
authority,
gender
hegemony,
and
class
discrimination.

These
films
serve
as

the
transition
between
the
classical
musical
and
today’s
hip-‐hop
influenced
dance
film
by
invoking

the
themes
of
artistic
aspiration
and
wish-‐fulfillment
that
energized
classical
musicals,
while
adding

new
elements
of
pop
song
scoring
and
music
video
aesthetics.
As
discussed
above,
the
classical
and

postclassical
musical
frequently
staged
a
culture
clash
and
championed
the
authenticity
of
the

working-‐class
as
iterant,
free-‐spirited
bohemians
while
lampooning
the
stuffy
or
fatuous
upper-‐
classes.
The
1980s
dance
cycle
inherits
and
augments
this
trope,
and
the
films
also
use
class

distinction,
economic
barriers,
taste
culture,
and
exclusivity
as
central
story
points
and
plot
devices.

Wish
fulfillment,
romance,
and
dreams
of
stardom
have
always
been
part
of
the
musical
myth

and
the
very
essence
of
its
appeal,
and
these
films
have
extended
that
myth
with
an
emphasis
on

marginalized
social
underdogs
who
want
to
enact
their
dreams
through
dance.
The
racial
element

that
will
become
the
keynote
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film
is
not
yet
evident,
but
the
seeds
of
culture

clash
and
youth
rebellion
have
been
planted.
Notably,
the
dancing
protagonists
are
also
skewed

much
younger
than
in
musical
predecessors.
While
the
actual
performers
in
golden
era
musicals
may

have
been
quite
young,
their
character’s
age
is
usually
unspecified.
In
their
romantic
interludes
we

assume
that
they
are
old
enough
and
eligible
for
marriage,
since
the
boy-‐gets-‐girl
archetype
typically

results
in
a
wedding,
a
proposal,
or
at
least
the
intimation
of
life-‐long
commitment.
In
these
New

Wave
dance
films
and
beyond,
the
protagonists
are
explicitly
teenagers
or
very
young
adults,
either

in
high
school
or
just
barely
into
their
20s.
This
shift
is
likely
due
to
the
industrial
concerns
of

courting
a
younger
demographic,
which
complements
the
marketing
synergy
of
including
hit

283

recording
artists
on
the
soundtracks.
In
the
1980s
and
1990s,
the
omnipresent
influence
of
MTV

made
the
youth
market
a
massive
and
profitable
target.

Setting
the
template
for
the
contemporary
urban
dance
film,
Fame
became
an
instant
hit
in

1980,
spawning
various
spin-‐off
franchises
for
the
next
decade
and
achieving
cult
status
as
the

quintessential
backstage
drama.
The
film
chronicles
an
entire
academic
year
in
the
lives
of
various

students
at
the
competitive
New
York
High
School
of
Performing
Arts.
The
narrative
is
segmented
by

year
(freshman,
sophomore
etc.)
and
tracks
the
artistic
aspirations,
professional
pitfalls,
and

personal
revelations
of
its
ensemble
cast.
Although
the
high
school
includes
theater
and
music

programs,
the
dance
school
easily
wins
narrative
and
visual
primacy
in
the
story
by
virtue
of
its

kinetic
engagement:
talented
young
dancers
are
simply
more
thrilling
to
watch
than
teens
practicing

monologues
or
composing
music.
Accordingly,
the
most
memorable
characters
and
sequences
come

from
the
dance
school,
including
Lisa
the
perfectionist
ballerina
and
Leroy
the
rebellious
street

dancer—two
character
archetypes
that
will
recur
in
and
become
emblematic
of
the
Formula
Dance

Film.
While
Fame
is
not
strictly
a
musical
in
the
sense
of
integration,
the
dance
numbers
take
certain

liberties
in
terms
of
realism
and
feasibility,
with
staging
and
choreography
that
veer
towards
a

professionally
rehearsed
number
rather
than
supposedly
spontaneous
bursts
of
movement.
In
the

most
celebrated
sequence,
the
kids
burst
into
the
New
York
streets
and
dance
in
unison
as
the
title

song
“Fame”
improbably
blares
out
over
car
speakers.
Out
of
context,
these
numbers
would
play
with

the
same
fanciful
narrative
breach
as
a
Kelly/Donen
number,
since
they
are
equally
choreographed

and
refined,
but
the
keynote
of
this
1980s
dance
cycle
and
the
millennial
films
to
follow
is
that
they

explicitly
reassure
the
viewer
that
this
is
not
a
musical,
that
this
is
real
life—an
accurately

documented
portrait
of
the
harrowing
commitment
and
struggle
faced
by
artists.
Feuer’s
observation

about
the
erasure
of
effort
and
choreography
references
a
phenomenon
that
began
with
the

integrated
musical,
but
it
is
also
applicable
to
the
contemporary
dance
film,
which
urges
us
to
believe

that
these
moments
are
organic:

Although
spontaneity
must
of
necessity
be
ever
an
illusion
in
any
film,
the
backstage

musical
compounds
the
illusion
by
giving
us
“improvisation”
in
a
rehearsal
atmosphere.
The

same
impulse
appears
to
drive
the
masking
of
choreography
and
the
masking
of
rehearsals.

Both
serve
to
render
as
entertainment
the
work
that
goes
into
producing
entertainment.
It

is
not
that
choreography
and
rehearsals
are
eliminated
from
the
endless
chronicle
of

putting
on
a
show.
There
can
be
no
cancellation
without
the
initial
creation.
But
the
dances

and
the
practicing
of
them
are
shown
in
such
a
way
to
efface
their
own
origins
in
labor

(dancing
and
choreography)
and
in
technology
(filming).
The
process
of
creation
and

284

cancellation
in
turn
renders
transparent
the
creation
of
the
Hollywood
musicals

themselves.
36

This
method
of
concealment
will
reappear
in
every
millennial
urban
dance
film,
where
supposedly

impromptu
street
performances
and
playfully
“improvised”
dance
battles
are
perfectly

choreographed
to
give
the
appearance
of
spontaneous,
irrepressible
energy
that
is
synonymous
with

this
new
cycle.

As
the
next
installment
in
the
1980s
cycle,
Adrian
Lyne’s
Flashdance
reinterprets
a
culture

clash
that
stems
directly
from
studio
era
musicals
with
only
a
stylistic
update.
Ballet
is
still
regarded

as
the
top
of
the
dance
hierarchy,
but
Broadway
hoofing
has
been
replaced
by
break-‐dancing.
The

binary
and
valence
remain
exactly
the
same:
we
are
meant
to
root
for
working-‐class
Alex
(Jennifer

Beals)
and
her
maverick
approach
as
she
combines
classical
form
with
street
dance
in
order
to
gain

admittance
into
the
Pittsburg
Conservatory
of
Dance.
Filmed
at
the
height
of
MTV’s
meteoric
rise
and

cultural
influence,
Flashdance
capitalized
on
the
prevalence
and
popularity
of
music
videos
and
their

montage
style.
Critics
at
the
time
often
sniped
that
the
film
was
nothing
more
than
an
extended
series

of
rock
sequences.
This
critique
was
not
unfounded
in
that
Lyne
intentionally
sought
to
reproduce

the
energy,
style,
and
imagery
of
early
80s
music
videos,
and
Flashdance
became
the
first
film
in

history
to
have
entire
music
sequences
excerpted
and
played
as
stand-‐alone
videos
on
MTV.

Flashdance
effectively
established
the
linkage
between
theatrical
film
and
televised
music
video,
and

this
innovation
has
continued
to
have
an
aesthetic
and
industrial
impact
on
the
dance
film
today.

Beyond
its
music
and
its
reliance
on
montage
editing,
Flashdance
is
anchored
by
the

fetishistic
portrayal
of
Alexandra
“Alex”
Owens,
who
became
an
icon
for
the
beauty
standards,

fashion
style,
and
paradoxical
gender
roles
of
the
time.

Steel
mill
worker
by
day
and
exotic
dancer
by

night,
Alex
embodies
the
often
incompatible
tendencies
of
the
1980s
“Power
Woman,”
at
once

objectified
by
her
bodacious
sexuality
and
simultaneously
trying
to
prove
herself
as
one
of
the
boys

and
an
independent
working
woman.
The
dichotomy
of
Alex’s
day
and
nighttime
occupation
is
a

literal
manifestation
of
the
post-‐feminist
dilemma:
can
we
embrace
and
exploit
our
sexuality
and

flaunt
our
femininity,
or
must
we
assimilate
the
patriarchal
values
and
physical
attributes
of
men
to

gain
acceptance
and
credibility
in
the
work
place?
This
tension
and
its
contradictory
impulses

infiltrated
1980s
media
products,
including
film,
print,
and
advertising.
Ladies’
fashion
magazines

would
emphasize
the
importance
of
“power
dressing”
(i.e.
suits
with
exaggerated
shoulder
pads
to

36

Feuer,
The
Hollywood
Musical,
11-‐14.

285

confer
a
sense
of
command
and
authority)
while
also
dispensing
advice
on
laborious
and
ornate

makeup
trends
that
only
emphasized
sexuality
and
femininity.
Flashdance
uses
Alex
as
the
physical

embodiment
of
these
opposing
tendencies
in
shots
that
juxtapose
her
as
masculinized
(in
men’s
work

gear
and
using
welding
equipment)
alongside
almost
pornographic
imagery
as
she
writhes
and

gyrates
in
g-‐strings
and
fishnet
stockings.

In
the
film’s
most
iconic
moment,
Alex
finishes
an
ecstatic
dance
performance
by
throwing

herself
onto
a
chair,
arching
her
back,
and
dousing
herself
with
a
pail
of
water
suspended
above
the

stage.
This
action
is
clearly
meant
to
suggest
climax
and
ejaculation,
and
the
male
patrons
watch

breathless
and
aroused.
These
spectators
have
no
interest
in
her
dancing
technique
or
training—her

movement
is
meant
solely
for
prurient
entertainment,
which
allows
Lyne
to
cagily
have
it
both
ways:

the
narrative
insistently
claims
that
Alex
wants
more
because
she
has
true
talent;
that
she
is
better

than
this
seedy
milieu
and
deserves
appreciation
for
her
dance
skill.
And
yet
the
night
club
audience

and
by
extension
the
actual
film
audience
can
still
indulge
in
the
voyeuristic
spectacle
of
her
body,

even
as
we
know
she
is
being
exploited.
It
is
also
significant
that
actress
Jennifer
Beals’
physicality

and
ambiguous
ethnicity
contribute
to
the
incipient
racial
element
that
will
fully
materialize
in
the

next
decade.
Although
her
racial
identity
is
never
discussed
as
a
plot
element,
Beals’
mixed
race

heritage
(African
American
and
Irish)
made
her
part
of
the
newly
popularized
multicultural
look
that

was
gaining
a
foothold
in
the
fashion
and
beauty
world
and
would
become
a
national
trend
in
the

1990s.
Unlike
future
dance
films
that
overtly
foreground
race,
Beals’
racial
duality
is
not
narrativized,

but
it
remains
a
subtle
presentiment
of
what
will
happen
in
the
subgenre.

Not
surprisingly,
Alex’s
masculinized
personality
and
her
flagrant
hypersexuality
are
both

completely
at
odds
with
the
ballet
world
that
she
desperately
wants
to
enter.
She
reveres
classical

dance
not
only
for
its
elevated
artistic
satisfaction
but
for
its
implicit
ability
to
grant
her
access
to
a

new
social
stature
and
class
distinction.
She
fixates
on
her
goal
of
earning
a
spot
at
the
conservatory,

and
when
she
is
not
at
the
steel
plant
or
the
club,
she
practices
assiduously
in
her
warehouse

apartment,
advancing
the
subgenre's
emphasis
on
a
talented
but
self-‐taught
protagonist
who
can

harness
her
passion
in
an
authentic
and
“natural”
way.
After
a
romantic
entanglement
with
the
boss’s

son
and
a
moral
crisis
that
forces
her
to
quit
the
club,
Alex
finally
secures
an
audition
for
the

academy.
This
number
will
set
the
template
for
every
dance
film
to
come,
and
the
Big
Audition
has

become
requisite
in
the
genre.
The
taciturn,
snobbish,
and
skeptical
judges
initially
look
at
her
with

distain,
but
they
ultimately
get
entranced
by
her
renegade
mixed-‐style
performance,
which
includes

ballet,
modern,
jazz,
and
acrobatic
break-‐dancing.
Set
to
the
Oscar-‐winning
original
song
“What
a

286

Feeling”
by
Irene
Cara,
Alex
performs
wearing
nothing
but
black
briefs,
leg
warmers,
and
a
crop
top

that
reveal
her
toned
body;
her
abundant
brown
curls
are
left
down
in
a
wild
tangle.
She
is
the

diametric
opposite
of
every
ballerina
at
the
audition,
all
of
whom
adhere
to
the
expected
uniform
of

leotards,
pastel
tights,
and
sleek,
perfectly
controlled
buns.
Although
Alex
is
eager
to
gain
admission

into
this
rarefied
world,
she
is
too
much
an
individualist
(and
thus
too
authentic)
to
disavow
her

personal
style
or
ever
truly
repress
her
vitality
and
sexuality.

The
notoriety
of
this
audition
scene
has
been
compounded
by
the
scandal
that
occurred

when
the
uncredited
dance
double
Marine
Jahan
confirmed
that
Beals
did
not
perform
her
own
work.

Throughout
the
publicity
circuits
and
ad
campaigns,
Jennifer
Beals
was
touted
as
a
break-‐out
starlet

who
performed
her
own
dancing.
Eventually,
Jahan
came
forward,
as
did
the
specialty
break-‐dancer

who
was
actually
a
man
named
Crazy
Legs.
This
embarrassment
has
subsequently
tarnished

Flashdance
in
terms
of
its
dancing
integrity,
though
it
has
not
detracted
from
its
overall
popularity

and
camp
status.
However,
this
gaffe
has
since
been
rectified,
and
today’s
Formula
Dance
Films

almost
exclusively
cast
professional
dancers
as
the
leads,
yielding
mixed
results
with
first-‐rate

dancing
and
questionable
acting.

In
1987,
Dirty
Dancing
continued
the
cycle
as
a
nostalgic
throwback
set
in
1963
and
rife
with

burgeoning
teenage
love
in
a
combination
of
backstage
dance
drama
and
coming-‐of-‐age
narrative.

Seventeen-‐year-‐old
Frances
“Baby”
Houseman
(Jennifer
Grey)
is
another
young
protagonist
and

member
of
the
social
elite.
As
the
daughter
of
a
wealthy
East
coast
doctor,
she
and
her
family
summer

at
an
exclusive
country
club
resort
in
the
Catskills.

Like
other
dance
films
in
this
1980s
cycle,
Dirty

Dancing
evokes
a
fairytale
narrative
structure,
and
if
Flashdance
is
a
Cinderella
story,
than
this
film

most
closely
resembles
The
Prince
and
the
Pauper:
Baby
is
a
sheltered,
slightly
bored
princess
who

yearns
to
break
free
of
parental
control
to
experience
adventure
and
excitement.
Dance
becomes
a

metonym
for
her
desire
to
rebel
and
experience
maturation
as
she
moves
from
girl
to
woman.
Her

nickname
“Baby”
is
indicative
of
her
infantilized
status,
and
while
adults
treat
her
with
smothering

condescension,
she
longs
for
passion
and
sexual
awakening.
Baby
quickly
becomes
infatuated
with

the
club’s
resident
dance
instructor
Johnny
Castle
(Patrick
Swayze),
and
when
she
glimpses
him

performing
a
sensual
after-‐hours
mambo,
she
becomes
instantly
entranced
by
the
enlivening
and

transportive
power
of
this
“dirty
dancing.”

Equally
smitten
with
Johnny
and
captivated
by
this

intriguing
dance
style,
Baby
pursues
the
older
dance
instructor
until
he
agrees
to
mentor
her.

Accordingly,
all
the
resulting
dance
sequences
are
dramatically
motivated
and
integrated
as
part
of

287

the
rehearsal
and
performance
process.
When
Johnny’s
regular
partner
is
sidelined,
Baby
steps
in,

signifying
her
growth
both
as
an
artistic
equal
and
potential
lover.

In
the
1980s
dance
film
and
the
Formula
Dance
Film
to
follow,
love
and
sensuality
always

develop
in
tandem
with
the
dancing
element,
and
rehearsals
or
free-‐styling
serve
as
wordless

courtship
and
symbolic
foreplay.
Dirty
Dancing
adheres
to
the
formulaic
structure
that
was
gradually

but
unmistakably
solidifying
during
the
decade,
and
it
briskly
implements
the
standard
romantic

plotlines
and
melodrama,
including
infidelity,
abortion,
and
the
forbidden
affair
between
Johnny
and

under-‐aged
Baby.
All
the
crises
and
misunderstandings
are
summarily
resolved
after
renunciation

and
eventual
reconciliation.
Underscoring
this
narrative
drama,
dance
is
used
as
a
powerful

metaphor
for
sexual
release
and
romantic
union,
most
memorably
expressed
in
a
central
scene
when

Baby
and
Johnny
practice
their
routine
in
the
water
and
he
famously
lifts
her
above
his
head.
This

moment
can
be
interpreted
as
the
choreographic
equivalent
to
climax,
and
the
lift
becomes
a
visual

motif
for
the
film:
in
her
first
attempt
to
execute
the
lift
in
front
of
an
audience,
Baby's
nerves
hold

her
back,
but
in
the
final
scene,
they
perform
it
flawlessly,
which
signifies
their
sexual
compatibility

and
their
status
as
a
romantic
couple—the
ability
to
perform
such
an
impressive
and
advanced
feat

in
perfect
synchronization
is
symbolic
of
their
connection.
This
lift
has
since
become
so
recognizable

that
it
has
been
used
as
the
movie
poster
and
DVD
cover
ever
since
the
theatrical
release,
and
the
use

of
pas
de
deux
partner
dancing
as
a
prelude
and
corollary
to
lovemaking
will
become
a
genre
staple.

Collectively
these
1980s
films
represent
a
synthesis
of
classical
musical
traditions
with

updated
twists
that
appealed
to
the
teen
demographic
by
creating
a
new
emphasis
on
generational

conflict,
subculture,
and
au
courant
music
and
dance
styles.
This
mode
shifts
directly
into
the

millennium
when
the
Formula
Dance
Film
employs
the
concerns
and
techniques
of
its
predecessors

(dance,
dreams,
romance,
and
culture
clash)
while
adding
an
element
of
urban
criminality
and

racialized
conflict.
Its
distinctive
combination
of
fantasy
and
darker
reality
makes
the
subgenre
both

delightful
and
problematic:
the
Formula
Dance
Film
has
the
whimsy
and
visual
splendor
of
its

classical
ancestors,
but
the
escapist
pleasure
of
young
dancers
in
love
gets
complicated
by

contentious
racial
ideologies,
which
speaks
to
the
larger
and
ongoing
issues
of
racial
representation

and
cultural
appropriation
in
American
media.

288

The
Dance
Film
Today

The
last
ten
years
has
witnessed
a
proliferation
of
an
increasingly
recognizable
subgenre
of

the
dance
film.
Youth-‐oriented,
urban-‐themed,
and
effusively
kinetic,
the
Formula
Dance
Film

embraces
an
MTV
music
video
aesthetic
in
the
high-‐energy
display
of
young
bodies
in
motion,
the

central
narrative
of
hetero-‐normative
coupling,
and
the
ideologically
fraught
portrayal
of
a
utopian

multiculturalism
that
can
obliterate
social
injustice
and
unite
divisive
factions.
Alternatively

progressive
and
misguidedly
naive,
this
thematic
of
cultural
and
racial
fusion
and
eventual
synthesis

is
the
ideological
foundation
for
what
I
term
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
which
crystallized
in
2001
and

continues
today.
While
the
Formula
Dance
Film
has
its
antecedents
in
past
genres,
it
has
a
distinctly

millennial
preoccupation
with
multiculturalism,
ethnic
cool,
and
hybridity.
As
both
philosophy
and

public
policy,
multiculturalism
has
existed
in
the
United
States
for
decades,
but
this
particular

incarnation
coincides
with
and
reinforces
the
decisive
mainstreaming
of
hip-‐hop
culture,
emergent
in

the
1980s,
accelerating
in
the
1990s,
and
solidified
by
the
end
of
the
twentieth
century.
The

pervasive
and
generally
celebratory
embrace
of
hip-‐hop
culture
and
aesthetics
has
become

ubiquitous
in
visual
media,
and
the
films
under
investigation
capitalize
on
that
popularity
while

exposing
lingering
tensions
and
articulations
of
difference.

With
only
slight
contextual
variation,
the
Formula
Dance
Films
all
stage
a
culture
clash
as
the

central
conflict,
which
can
have
multiple
manifestations.
The
most
palpable
clash
is
staged
between

races
as
black
versus
white,
and
correlatively
ballet
versus
hip-‐hop,
but
it
can
also
be
mapped
out

onto
refined
high
culture
against
street
culture,
youth
in
resistance
to
parent
culture,
or
subculture
in

opposition
to
the
mainstream.
When
the
conflict
is
not
explicitly
between
black
and
white,
there
is

still
an
implicitly
racialized
discourse,
and
if
the
narrative
is
situated
entirely
within
the
black

community,
then
the
thematic
drive
is
about
bettering
oneself
and
using
dance
as
a
tool
of
self-‐
improvement
and
escape
from
one’s
environment.
Similarly,
these
contradictory
impulses
can
be

literally
embodied
within
one
character,
like
the
bi-‐racial
ballet-‐trained
club
dancer
in
2003’s
Honey.

These
conflicts
are
typically
resolved
in
a
two–fold
process:
first
through
an
initial
hetero-‐normative

coupling
in
the
requisite
romance
storyline,
and
then
more
dazzlingly
through
a
climactic
dance

number—an
important
audition,
a
final
performance,
or
a
high-‐stakes
competition-‐-‐
that
often
serves

as
a
metonym
for
the
entire
dramatic
arc
and
conflict
of
the
film.
In
addition
to
carrying
the
most

thematic
and
narrative
import,
these
set-‐pieces
also
contain
the
most
stylized
and
formalist

aesthetics,
and
the
self-‐contained
dance
numbers
display
a
delirious
breach
of
logic
and
linearity.

289

Importantly,
despite
their
typically
gritty
and
bleak
urban
settings,
with
suggestions
of

violence,
criminality,
and
desperation,
these
films
all
operate
within
a
utopian
framework,
and
their

logic
suggests
that
through
fusion,
synthesis,
and
of
course
the
proposed
unifying
panacea
of
dance,

race
relations
can
become
harmonious
and
former
schisms
and
inequalities
can
be
easily
rectified.

However,
despite
the
entertaining
aesthetic
and
the
persuasively
optimistic
rhetoric
of

multiculturalism,
these
films
ultimately
rely
on
an
entrenched
set
of
stereotypes
and
representations

that
continue
to
reinforce
essentialist
assumptions
about
blacks,
whites,
ballet,
hip-‐hop
etc.

In
addition
to
the
oppositional
cultural
concerns
present
in
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
I
will

also
address
the
embodied
experience
of
dance
when
it
intersects
with
discourses
of
race
and
the

body.
In
these
films,
the
black/white
binary
that
demarcates
culture
is
likewise
mapped
onto
the

body,
with
each
race
ascribed
a
set
of
immutable
traits
and
expectations.
The
white
dancing
body
is

almost
always
associated
with
classical
training
and
the
refined
world
of
ballet,
steeped
in
technique

and
rigorous
discipline.

The
sylph-‐like
ballerina
is
the
epitome
of
the
white
bodily
ideal,
constructed

as
graceful
and
ethereal,
in
addition
to
being
desexualized
by
her
very
prepubescent
physicality.
In

its
most
innocuous
representation,
the
white
dancing
body
is
simply
uptight,
constrained,
and
unable

to
have
fun
or
cut
loose.
Taken
to
an
extreme,
this
bodily
construction
pathologizes
the
ballerina:
she

is
aligned
with
neuroses
and
suffers
psychological
trauma,
depicted
by
eating
disorders,
masochistic

torment,
and
often
insanity
or
suicide.
This
abjection
for
her
art
permanently
links
the
white
dancing

female
body
with
fragility
and
frigidity.
On
the
other
side
of
the
binary,
the
black
dancing
body,
both

male
and
female,
is
constantly
equated
with
the
natural
and
the
primal,
suggesting
that
black
bodies

have
intrinsic
rhythmic
qualities
that
emanate
from
within.
As
evinced
by
its
improvisational
style,

hip-‐hop
is
conceived
as
the
antithesis
of
ballet,
and
this
vernacular
dance
is
defined
as
an
effusive

outburst
from
an
innate
sense
of
soul.
Consequently,
the
black
body
is
portrayed
as
robust,
muscular,

energetic,
and
highly
sexual,
reinforced
by
the
moves
of
hip-‐hop
itself
and
the
objectifying
cinematic

techniques
that
capture
these
sequences.
The
inevitable
extension
of
this
construction
is
that
the

black
body
veers
into
the
bestial,
aggressive,
hypersexual,
and
ultimately
dangerous.
Just
as
the
white

dancing
body
is
made
moribund,
the
black
dancing
body
has
the
potential
for
unruly
behavior
and

violence.
While
in
reality
there
is
no
fixed
restriction
that
forces
one
race
to
perform
one
cultural

form
of
dance,
the
above
perceptions
and
representations
are
so
powerfully
reproduced
in
the

Formula
Dance
Film
that
crossover
seems
inconceivable.
The
rare
black
ballerina
or
white
hip-‐hop

dancer
is
the
exception
to
the
rule.

290

In
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
the
fissured
instability
of
interracial
relations
and
oppositional

cultures
is
typically
smoothed
over
by
the
palliative
of
romantic
coupling
in
concert
with
a
fusion
of

dance
traditions.
This
hetero-‐normative
union
provides
the
drama,
central
conflict,
and
eventual
plot

resolution,
while
the
marriage
of
dance
styles
has
metaphoric
import
and
furnishes
the
spectacular,

visceral
set-‐pieces
that
define
this
cycle.
Within
the
genre,
dance
and
love
become
the
alliance
that

can
induct
racial
harmony,
even
if
these
films
leave
the
real
issues
untouched
or
troublingly

unresolved
in
favor
of
thrilling
dance
performances
that
tend
to
obfuscate
systemic
problems
that

are
only
tangentially
or
momentarily
addressed.

In
this
dissertation
I
will
examine
the
archetypal

construction
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film
and
its
standardized
narrative
and
thematic
tropes,
in

addition
to
addressing
the
genre’s
ideological
implications,
including
the
strategic
deployment
of
a

somewhat
outmoded
rhetoric
of
multiculturalism,
as
well
as
the
idealized
depiction
of
solidarity

through
cultural
synthesis.
I
will
also
delineate
the
key
operative
dichotomies
posited
in
these
films,

represented
most
patently
by
the
divergence
of
ballet
and
hip-‐hop,
which
serve
as
metonymic

polarities
throughout
the
cycle.
Using
Save
the
Last
Dance
(2001)
as
the
starting
point,
I
argue
that

this
film
serves
as
the
progenitor
of
the
current
Formula
Dance
cycle,
establishing
the
soon-‐to-‐be

crystallized
patterns
that
are
now
so
recognizable.
This
film
foregrounds
race
relations
as
its
central

conflict,
and
the
parallel
clash
between
ballet
and
hip-‐hop
plays
out
conterminously.
Tracing
the

subgenre’s
evolution
over
the
last
decade,
I
will
close
with
an
analysis
of
the
Step
Up
franchise
and
its

gradual
but
unmistakable
erasure
of
blackness.

Although
I
have
been
highlighting
the
more
ineffectual
aspects
of
Formula
Dance
Film

politics,
I
should
note
that
the
genre’s
inability
to
satisfyingly
address
larger
issues
of
racial
relations

should
not
discount
these
films
from
being
regarded
as
significant
representations
of
culture
and

cultural
meaning.
The
fact
that
they
engage
in
such
debates
at
all,
albeit
in
an
idealized
fashion,
is
a

significant
contribution
to
mainstream
cinema,
which
still
rarely
ventures
into
issues
of
race
and

class
without
an
added
layer
of
social
problem
didacticism.
What
is
in
fact
more
troubling
is
when
the

later
films
in
the
cycle
have
obliterated
the
issue
of
race
entirely
and
turned
the
fundamental
schism

of
the
Formula
Dance
Film
(black
vs.
white)
into
one
of
class
struggles
(proletariat
vs.
elite).
I
will

argue
that
in
its
evolution
and
expansion
throughout
the
last
decade,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
has
had

radical
potential
in
its
portrayal
of
race
relations
and
cultural
hegemony,
a
potential
that
has
been

diluted
and
compromised
by
the
more
recent
additions
to
the
cycle
and
their
effacement
or

circumvention
of
race.
If
we
examine
the
first
of
the
series
(Save
the
Last
Dance)
alongside
the
more

recent
Step
Up
films
(the
last
was
released
in
2014),
we
see
the
eventual
removal
of
black
people
as

physical
bodies
while
retaining
the
signifiers
of
black
culture.
To
borrow
bell
hooks’
famed
concept,

291

The
Other
has
been
consumed,
and
in
the
case
of
the
Step
Up,
fully
digested,
without
a
trace
of
the

originator.
The
early
Formula
Dance
Films
posit
a
culture
clash
and
eventual
(if
illusory)
resolution,

but
at
least
they
actually
deal
with
the
antagonism
represented
by
racial
misunderstanding,

assumptions,
and
stereotypes.
The
latest
films
have
simply
bypassed
the
delicate
issue
completely,

using
the
Other
as
a
spice
that
adds
flavor
to
a
white
person’s
story,
and
when
they
are
no
longer

visible,
blacks
become
a
present-‐absence
as
the
white
characters
appropriate
their
culture
and
their

cool.

The
Shadow
of
Multiculturalism:
Difference
as
a
Commodity

All
the
films
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle
are
subtended
by
the
lingering
rhetoric
of

multiculturalism,
a
seductive
concept
that
once
had
potency
but
now
seems
unrealized
and

hopelessly
imbricated
in
commercial
culture,
divorced
from
political
mobilization
or
actual
social

change.
During
the
late
1990s,
the
myth
of
multiculturalism
had
serious
currency,
as
media

commentators
and
advertisers
alike
rhapsodized
about
a
post-‐race
melting
pot
America
where

everyone
mixed
and
borrowed
from
other
races
and
cultures
in
one
celebratory
act
of
bricolage.
The

prevailing
assumption
was
that
through
sharing
and
cross-‐cultural
encounters,
we
could
foster
a
new

understanding
and
harmony
between
once
divisive
groups,
and
this
understandably
appealing

concept
undergirds
all
of
the
Formula
Dance
Films,
giving
them
a
distinctly
millennial
sense
of

hybridity
and
fusion.

However,
for
all
its
effusive
and
inclusive
talk,
multiculturalism
never
really
became
manifest

as
a
social
reality:
racial
difference
remains
irreducible,
while
conflict,
prejudice,
and
self-‐imposed

segregation
continue,
but
capitalist
industries
have
managed
to
recuperate
and
repackage
the

imagery
and
rhetoric
of
multiculturalism
and
cleverly
deploy
it
in
the
mass
media
to
sell
that

ineffable
concept
of
cool.
Ethnicity,
especially
blackness,
is
continually
commodified
and
used
to
sell

ideas
like
authenticity
and
exoticism,
and
in
countless
films
and
commercial
imagery,
blackness
gets

decontextualized,
removed
from
its
source,
modified
to
fit
a
capitalist
agenda,
and
sold
back
to
us
as

we
voraciously
consume
difference.
Using
bell
hooks’
provocative
essay
“Eating
the
Other”
as
a

theoretical
foundation,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
exemplifies
her
concept
of
sampling
and

commodifying
ethnicity
like
a
consumable,
additive
flavor,
in
addition
to
the
coextensive
process
of

dabbling
in
multiculturalism
as
a
form
of
virtual
tourism.
This
process
is
akin
to
a
safari,
where
thrill-‐
seekers
can
metaphorically
voyage
to
the
dark
continent
and
back,
“The
commodification
of

Otherness
has
been
so
successful
because
it
is
offered
as
a
new
delight,
more
intense,
more
satisfying

292

than
normal
ways
of
doing
and
feeling.
Within
commodity
culture,
ethnicity
becomes
spice,

seasoning
that
can
liven
up
the
dull
dish
that
is
mainstream
white
culture.”
37

Perhaps
the
most
compelling
part
of
this
safari
mentality
is
that
it
ostensibly
invokes
progress
and

inclusive
change
for
the
better,
when
in
fact
it
is
reliant
on
maintaining
normative
standards
and

replicating
hierarchies
even
while
claiming
to
desire
difference:

To
make
one’s
self
vulnerable
to
the
seduction
of
difference,
to
seek
an
encounter
with

the
Other,
does
not
require
that
one
relinquish
forever
one's
mainstream
positionality.

When
race
and
ethnicity
become
commodified
as
resources
for
pleasure,
the
culture
of

specific
groups,
as
well
as
the
bodies
of
individuals,
can
be
seen
as
constituting
an

alternative
playground
where
members
of
dominating
races,
genders,
sexual
practices

affirm
their
power-‐over
in
intimate
relations
with
the
Other.
38

Multiculturalism
itself
stems
from
a
well-‐intentioned
progressivism,
but
we
tend
to
overestimate
its

rectifiable
qualities,
and
hooks
addresses
that
corrective
impulse:

The
desire
to
make
contact
with
these
bodies
deemed
Other,
with
no
apparent
will

to
dominate,
assuages
the
guilt
of
the
past,
even
takes
the
form
of
a
defiant
gesture

where
one
denies
accountability
and
historical
connection.
Most
importantly,
it

establishes
a
contemporary
narrative
where
the
suffering
imposed
by
structures

of
domination
on
those
designated
Other
is
deflected
by
an
emphasis
on
seduction

and
longing
where
the
desire
is
not
to
make
the
Other
over
in
one’s
image
but
to

becomes
the
Other.
39

In
the
above
passage,
hooks
summarizes
the
fundamental,
though
fundamentally
flawed
logic
behind

multiculturalism:
the
idea
that
mixing
and
the
demonstrable
desire
to
learn
about,
celebrate,
and

assimilate
the
qualities
of
another
culture
reconstitutes
and
thus
exculpates
a
racist
history
of

segregation
and
denigration.
Essentially,
such
supervised
encounters
give
us
just
a
taste
of
the

darkness,
so
we
can
have
a
vicarious
thrill
of
deeper,
earthier
passion
(or
whatever
essentialist

assumptions
are
in
effect)
without
the
danger
or
threat
of
reality.
As
hooks
puts
it,
“One
desires

contact
with
the
Other
even
as
one
wishes
boundaries
to
remain
intact”.
40

In
this
mode
of
tasting
a

trace
of
the
Other,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
allows
us
to
enjoy
the
vibrant
and
spectacularized
aspects

37

bell
hooks,
Black
Looks:
Race
and
Representation
(Boston:
South
End
Press,
1992),
21.

38

Ibid.,
23.

39

Ibid.,
25.

40

Ibid.,
29.

293

of
black
hip-‐hop
and
return
safely
without
any
norms
being
disturbed
and
without
enacting
actual

social
or
political
change.

Dance
Style:
Ballet
vs.
Hip-hop

Given
the
scant
and
inadequate
representation
of
non-‐white
races
in
the
history
of
American

musicals,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
represents
an
important,
though
problematic
intervention.
The

tropes
of
this
subgenre
are
now
familiar,
often
to
the
point
of
verging
on
cliché,
but
they
make
no

apologies
for
the
formula,
which
can
be
reduced
to
a
simple
racialized
postulate:
blacks
(and
black

culture)
are
inherently
cool;
blacks
teach
whites
to
be
cool.
This
method
relies
on
collapsing
a

complex
nexus
of
entrenched
historical
signifiers
and
cultural
stereotypes
into
a
set
of

representations
that
become
comprehensibly
read
as
distinctive
binaries.
These
binaries
are
made

reductive
and
simplistic
for
the
sake
of
narrative
legibility,
and
the
most
pervasive
one
is
the

dichotomy
between
ballet
and
hip-‐hop,
each
bolstered
by
their
own
concomitant
set
of
meanings
and

associations.
As
discussed
earlier,
this
dance
dichotomy
is
not
new—it
is
an
updated
continuation
of

the
classical
musical’s
adversarial
positioning
of
ballet
vs.
popular
dance.
Hip-‐hop
has
simply

replaced
Broadway
and
vernacular
dance,
but
the
conflict
of
initial
misapprehension,
dismissal,
and

eventual
appreciation
remains
the
same.

Of
all
the
operative
dichotomies
that
supply
the
cultural
conflict
in
Formula
Dance
Films,
the

most
visible
and
easily
dramatized
is
the
divergence
between
ballet
and
hip-‐hop,
not
only
because

they
have
such
a
powerful
cinematic
impact,
but
because
they
encapsulate
a
whole
series
of
symbolic

associations
that
delimit
and
exaggerate
cultural
difference.
Through
this
metaphor
of
dance,
racial

difference,
continental
biases,
and
artistic
taste
cultures
can
all
be
effectively
staged
as
dramatic

conflict.
Hip-‐hop
is
foregrounded
as
the
eminent
dance
style
in
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
and
it
is

coded
as
one
of
expressivity,
rawness,
and
authenticity
as
opposed
to
the
rigid
and
highly
civilized

aspects
of
ballet,
which
represents
hip-‐hop’s
semiotic
and
choreographic
foil
on
screen.
Conceived
as

a
high
art
form
born
of
rigorous
discipline,
classical
ballet
is
counterpoised
in
direct
opposition
to

hip-‐hop,
which
is
portrayed
as
more
natural,
bodily,
and
aggressive,
like
something
that
emanates

naturally
from
the
body
.
Based
on
strict
technique,
training,
and
unvarying
steps,
ballet
is
a
striking

and
cinematically
effective
contrast
to
the
improvisational,
kinetic,
and
intentionally
undisciplined

moves
of
hip-‐hop.
In
short,
ballet
represents
a
cultivated,
refined
world
of
white
European
high
art,

while
hip-‐hop
represents
a
distinctly
American
(specifically
black)
street
culture
experience.

Additionally,
and
of
key
relevance
to
the
romantic
storyline,
ballet
is
depicted
as
being

desexualized
versus
the
highly
sexualized,
erotic,
and
exhibitionistic
movements
of
hip-‐hop.
Ballet

294

becomes
polite
and
contained
as
opposed
to
the
thrusting,
popping,
and
gyrating
of
street
dance,
and

the
attributes
of
each
form
are
mapped
onto
the
bodies
of
the
respective
performers,
ascribing
them

personality
traits
that
correspond
to
their
dance
style.
This
leads
to
the
common
characterization
of

the
frigid,
assiduous
ballerina
who
obeys
the
rules
and
adheres
to
imposed
structure,
versus
the

passionate,
free-‐spirited
and
sometimes
criminal
hip-‐hopper
who
flouts
the
confinements
of
order,

presiding
over
the
streets
while
the
ballerina
is
cloistered
in
the
studio.
Of
course
it
is
important
to

recognize
that
these
dualistic
visions
of
ballet
vis
a
vis
hip-‐hop
are
merely
representations,
often

simplified
and
caricatured
for
the
sake
of
narrative
and
thematic
clarity;
they
are
very
often

inaccurate
and
do
not
reflect
the
true
nature
of
these
dance
forms,
or
even
the
actual
production
of

dance
on
film:
ballet
and
ballerinas
are
capable
of
conveying
intense
passion
and
sexuality
within
the

parameters
of
classical
dance,
just
as
hip-‐hop
performers
require
arduous
rehearsal
and
years
of

perfecting
their
signature
moves
so
that
they
can
appear
effortless.
However,
within
the
Formula

Dance
diegesis,
hip-‐hop
is
posited
as
insouciant
and
something
that
simply
bursts
forth
from
black

dancing
bodies,
contributing
to
the
stereotype
that
blacks
are
naturally
musical
and
rhythmic.
By

employing
this
longstanding
assumption,
the
films
conveniently,
ironically
belie
the
fact
that
all
the

hip-‐hop
dancing
(even
the
most
seemingly
spontaneous)
is
meticulously
choreographed
and

rehearsed
to
attain
a
level
of
perfection
equivalent
to
any
of
the
ballet
sequences.

In
a
type
of
semiotic
shorthand
and
for
the
sake
of
creating
a
comprehensible
cultural
rift,
the

Formula
Dance
Film
relies
on
and
continues
to
reproduce
these
binaric
representations
of
dance,

rendering
the
final
fusion
all
the
more
effective.
It
is
no
accident
that
these
two
cultural
forms
are

paired
together
as
the
epitome
of
mutually
exclusive,
oppositional
cultural
factions,
and
as
signifiers,

ballet
and
hip-‐hop
convey
a
wealth
of
dichotomies.
These
dichotomies
are
fundamental
to
the

Formula
Dance
Film,
but
what
happens
when
we
erase
the
actual
blackness
and
keep
only
the
black

dance
style?
What
does
that
mean
for
the
film
text
itself,
and
furthermore,
what
does
this
erasure

signal
about
the
trajectory
of
race
relations
in
twenty-‐first

century
America?
If
anything,
over
the
last

fifteen
years
we
should
have
been
able
to
move
from
an
overt
“message”
storyline
to
one
in
which

race
is
seamlessly
integrated
and
no
longer
a
narrative
preoccupation.
Instead
we
now
confront
a

neutralized
incarnation
where
divisive
issues
have
been
removed
altogether,
allowing
both
the

audience
and
the
characters
to
indulge
in
a
type
of
cultural
tourism
or
vacation
instead
of
permanent

relocation.

The
early
Formula
Dance
Films
may
have
suffered
from
predictable
storylines
and
saccharine

romances,
but
they
significantly
and
effectively
staged
a
dramatization
of
culture
wars
set
on
the

295

dance
floor
and
in
the
urban
streets.
The
discourse
is
admittedly
simplistic
but
it
addressed
very
real,

contentious
conflict.
Even
though
they
ultimately
resolve
racial
problems
through
a
displacement

onto
dance
and
a
celebratory
multiculturalism,
the
initial
cycle
still
dealt
with
complicated
and

insoluble
issues.
However,
when
the
subject
of
race
is
removed
or
subsumed,
hip-‐hop
and
blackness

become
a
commodified
ethnic
cool,
divested
of
political
potential,
and
the
Formula
Dance
Film

becomes
like
a
cinematic
safari
into
dark
and
primitive
territory
with
a
guaranteed
safe
return.
As
I

will
explore
in
the
following
chapters,
the
shift
from
Save
the
Last
Dance
to
Step
Up
demonstrates
this

erasure
and
displacement,
where
the
black
dancing
bodies
are
conspicuously
absent,
but
their
street

cred
and
style
remain
through
the
valorization
of
black
hip-‐hop
culture.

296

4.
Setting
the
Stage:
Save
the
Last
Dance
and
a
Developing
Genre

While
there
have
certainly
been
other
films
that
combined
the
potency
of
young
love
with
dance,

Save
the
Last
Dance
(2001)
ushered
in
a
new
era
of
Formula
Dance
Films.
While
its
predecessors

obliquely
glanced
over
issues
of
race
and
class,
Save
foregrounds
and
revels
in
the
contentious
nature

of
racial
discourse,
and
the
binary
oppositions
of
culture
clash
are
not
only
featured
but
become

constitutive
of
the
narrative
itself.
Directed
by
Thomas
Carter,
the
film
is
about
defining
whiteness
vis

a
vis
blackness,
cultural
appropriation,
and
the
barriers
facing
interracial
romance,
all
channeled

through
the
lens
of
dance
and
reconfigured
as
“ballet
versus
hip-‐hop.”
Its
extraordinary
narrative

simplicity
lends
the
film
an
earnest
quality
and
mass
appeal,
and
despite
its
relatively
small
budget,

Save
proved
a
surprise
hit,
effectively
reaching
its
target
demographic
of
teens
and
young
adults
and

yielding
major
box
office
returns.

With
its
2001
release,
Save
the
Last
Dance
signaled
the
chronological
and
thematic
genesis
of

the
Formula
Dance
Film
cycle.
While
dance
films
as
a
subgenre
have
had
popular
incarnations
in

earlier
decades,
as
well
as
a
sustained
connection
to
classical
musicals,
Save
represented
a
new

distinctly
millennial
hybrid
that
posits
a
celebratory
world
of
vibrant
multiculturalism,
where
racial

tensions
are
foregrounded
and
fancifully
resolved
through
the
spectacle
of
dance.
Save
stages
the

initial
confrontation
and
eventual
union
between
Sara
(Julia
Stiles)
and
Derek
(Sean
Patrick
Thomas)

in
what
begins
as
a
fish-‐out-‐of-‐water
plot.
After
her
mother’s
death,
aspiring
ballerina
Sara
Johnson

moves
in
with
her
distanced
and
fumbling
father
and
enrolls
in
a
primarily
black
high
school
in
the

heart
of
Chicago’s
Southside.
She
befriends
Derek
Reynolds
who
becomes
her
mentor
and
eventual

lover
as
he
guides
her
through
the
behavioral
codes
of
urban
life.
Though
they
initially
spar,
she
and

Derek
form
a
bond
and
support
each
other
in
their
respective
goals:
she
has
a
major
audition
for

acceptance
into
Julliard’s
dance
program,
and
he
aspires
to
attend
Georgetown
medical
school
while

trying
to
avoid
being
enmeshed
in
an
atavistic
allegiance
to
gang
life.
Ultimately
they
both
find

success
and
happiness,
in
accordance
with
the
film’s
logic
that
the
powerful
combination
of
love,

dance,
and
cultural
fusion
conquers
all.

In
its
narrative
and
conflictual
strategies,
Save
the
Last
Dance
set
the
tone
for
an
entire
genre

by
staging
the
compelling,
if
reductive
binaries
that
create
the
prevailing
logic
of
the
Formula
Dance

Film.
The
black
vs.
white
dichotomy
is
exceedingly
clear,
reinforced
on
both
a
formal
and
story
level.

Each
of
the
lead
characters
becomes
metonymic
for
a
complex
set
of
opposing
and
contested
cultural

signifiers,
resulting
in
an
essentialist
but
nonetheless
resonant
dramatization
of
culture
wars
and

racial
tension.
The
studious
and
reserved
Sara
embodies
all
the
codes
and
values
of
normative

297

dominant
culture,
from
her
appearance
to
her
preoccupations:
Sara’s
physicality
epitomizes
the

Anglo
beauty
standard
with
her
pale
white
skin
and
blonde
hair,
and
casting
becomes
very

significant.
Julia
Stiles'
whiteness
conveys
an
extreme
articulation
of
fragile
white
femininity,
and
she

is
not
simply
Caucasian—her
skin
is
alabaster
and
exceedingly
fair,
conjuring
historically
indelible

images
of
Western
beauty
ideals
where
delicate
lily-‐whiteness
symbolized
purity,
grace,
and

refinement.
Even
a
white
but
brunette
actress
would
have
demonstrably
altered
the
impact
and

import
of
her
fairness,
which
becomes
even
more
oppositional
when
visually
juxtaposed
with
actor

Sean
Patrick
Thomas’
blackness.

As
a
ballerina,
Sara
is
additionally
coded
by
the
inscriptions
of
high
culture,
with
associations

of
European
tradition
and
elitism.
In
stark
contrast
Derek
represents
every
oppositional
facet
and
he

is
importantly,
very
dark
skinned.
Sean
Patrick
Thomas
is
in
no
way
anglicized
and
he
does
not
have

green
eyes,
light
skin,
or
any
of
the
other
ambiguously
ethnic
features
that
have
been
so
popularized

and
commodified
by
the
multiethnic
explosion
of
the
1990s.
He
is
undeniably,
emphatically
black.

Consequently
in
any
shot
of
the
two
sharing
a
frame,
the
racial
disparity
is
emphasized
and

magnified,
and
their
relationship
immediately
gets
put
in
a
racialized
context
through
this

inescapably
visual
representation
of
difference.
Sara
and
Derek
are
literal
opposites,
and
for
all
the

theoretical
discourse
on
race
as
an
imagined
construct,
the
physicality
and
visual
contrast
between

these
two
actors
is
palpable
and
creates
a
dynamic
tension
in
any
scene
they
share.
Different
schools

of
thought—from
critical
race
theory
to
performance
studies-‐
have
sought
to
dismantle
the
concept

of
race
as
something
finite,
objective,
and
stable,
but
in
this
instance
of
interracial
coupling,
the

character’s
skin
color
instantly
polarizes
them
in
a
manifestation
of
larger
cultural
divisions.

In
addition
to
his
physical
presence,
Derek
represents
the
foil
to
every
one
of
Sara’s
culturally

ingrained
traits.
In
terms
of
socioeconomics,
Sara
is
comfortably
and
steadfastly
upper
middle-‐class,

while
Derek
inhabits
and
negotiates
the
difficult
working-‐class
world
of
Chicago’s
projects,
which
the

film
codes
as
a
ruthless
trap
of
urban
desperation
from
which
one
must
escape
or
perish.
Although

we
learn
that
Derek
is
intelligent
and
motivated
in
the
Horatio
Alger
mode
of
self-‐improvement
and

upward
mobility,
for
most
of
the
run-‐time
he
still
“keeps
it
real”
and
serves
as
an
authority
on
street

culture.
Derek’s
path
towards
escape
and
ascent
is
continually
threatened
by
the
recidivist
presence

of
his
former
best
friend
Malakai
(Fredro
Starr),
a
vicious
street
thug
who
demands
complete

allegiance
from
Derek.

As
revealed
in
his
backstory,
Mal
and
Derek
used
to
be
partners
in
crime,
but

Malakai
took
a
prison
rap
and
served
time
in
order
to
preserve
his
talented
friend’s
chances
at

betterment.
Although
Derek
has
disavowed
the
criminal
lifestyle,
he
still
has
loyalty
to
Mal
and
feels

298

indebted,
leaving
him
internally
split
between
neighborhood
affiliations
and
future
hopes.
His

burgeoning
romance
with
Sara
also
serves
as
an
incendiary
spark
that
seems
to
upset
everyone
in
his

social
world.

In
the
most
central
scenes
of
Save
the
Last
Dance,
Derek
inculcates
white-‐bread
Sara
with
the

mores
of
urban
style,
including
lexicon
and
deportment.
In
these
scenes
of
street
pedagogy,
the
film

enacts
what
will
become
the
defining
characteristic
of
the
Formula
Dance
ethos:
black
people
teach

white
people
to
be
cool.
This
instruction
involves
first
getting
them
to
relax,
since
according
to
the

essentialist
logic
of
the
genre,
white
people
are
naturally
repressed,
uptight,
and
self-‐conscious,
just

as
blacks
are
naturally
passionate,
unfettered,
and
self-‐assured.
While
Derek’s
lessons
in
blackness

cover
a
widespread
curriculum
of
clothes,
speech,
and
behavior,
the
central
component
of
Sara’s

apprenticeship
into
coolness
is
through
dance,
and
here
hip-‐hop
is
positioned
as
an
oppositional
but

eventually
complementary
force
to
ballet.
Derek
is
an
adept
and
talented
hip-‐hop
dancer
whose

tutelage
forces
Sara
out
of
the
rigidity
imposed
by
rigorous
classical
ballet
discipline.
This
allows
her

to
access
what
we
are
to
believe
is
a
more
liberated,
joyous,
and
authentic
form
of
dance,
or
as
he

says,
“Let’s
put
some
s-‐e-‐x
in
those-‐
h-‐i-‐p’s.”

As
Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild
highlights
in
The
Black

Dancing
Body,
ballet
is
inextricably
aligned
with
whiteness
and
European
culture,
and
by
inference,

with
containment
and
rigidity,
whereas
African-‐based
dance
forms
connote
expressivity:

The
vertically
aligned
torso
is
the
center
of
the
Europeanist
ballet
body
and
stands
in

contrast
to
the
articulated
African
torso,
where
chest,
ribs,
belly,
pelvis,
buttocks
can
move

independently…Generically
speaking,
the
Europeanist
dancing
body
ideal
is
the
icon
of

control
and
order;
the
Africanist
of
improvisation
and
release.
Every
dance
form
maintains

its
integrity
by
negotiating
both
sides
of
these
paired
opposites;
different
quantities
in
each

equation
(freedom/control,
improvisation/set
sequencing,
and
so
on)
are
the
shifts
in

balance
that
distinguish
one
dance
form
from
another.
41

By
extension,
the
supposedly
white
tradition
of
ballet
exists
as
a
negation
of
black
dance
forms,
not

only
in
terms
of
technique
and
style,
but
also
in
terms
of
innuendo
and
implication.
Black
dance

forms—whether
a
tribal
dance
in
Zambia
or
hip-‐hop
in
the
Bronx-‐-‐
are
perceived
as
being
more

suggestive
and
sexual,
due
in
part
to
the
moves
themselves
but
largely
attributed
to
cultural

stereotypes
about
the
innate
sensuality
of
the
black
dancing
body,
a
stance
that
is
clearly
derived

from
a
Eurocentric
mindset
and
value
system:

41

Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild,
The
Black
Dancing
Body:
A
Geography
From
Coon
To
Cool
(New

York:
Palgrave
Macmillan,
2002),
37.

299

From
the
Africanist
standpoint
a
vertically
aligned
stance
and
static
carriage
indicate

inflexibility
and
sterility.
By
Europeanist
standards,
the
Africanist
dancing
body-‐-‐
articulating
the
trunk
that
houses
primary
and
secondary
sexual
characteristics—is
vulgar,

lewd.
The
presumption
of
promiscuity
leads
to
the
lubricious
stereotypes
attributed
to

black
dancing
bodies.
42

Given
the
perceptual
permanence
of
these
stereotypes,
Save
the
Last
Dance
uses
the
characters
and

physical
bodies
of
Sara
and
Derek
to
situate
the
opposition
of
black
vs.
white,
hip-‐hop
vs.
ballet,
and

high
vs.
low
art.
The
film
uses
dance
as
the
node
where
these
nominally
divergent
and
generally

irresolvable
conflicts
can
achieve
a
moment
of
utopian
coexistence.

The
Story:
Culture
Clash
and
Lessons
in
Cool

The
Formula
Dance
Film
creates
an
equally
hyperbolic
depiction
of
dancers
and
their
craft:

while
the
actual
choreography
is
always
polished
and
well-‐executed,
the
representation
of
the
dance

world
itself
is
often
wildly
inaccurate,
pandering
to
the
public
(mis)conception
of
what
it
means
to
be

a
dancer.
The
ballerina
in
a
Formula
Dance
Film
is
treated
with
a
skewed
verisimilitude,
and
the

cinematic
depiction
of
her
craft
is
shaped
by
the
filmmakers
and
their
view
of
what
an
audience

wants
to
believe
about
ballet.
In
a
flashback
that
is
characteristic
of
both
the
genre
and
romance

melodrama
as
a
whole,
we
are
initially
aligned
with
Sara’s
subjectivity
as
she
anxiously
prepares
for

her
Julliard
audition.
Her
mother
gives
her
a
necklace
with
an
angel-‐shaped
pendant,
“For
love,
not

luck,
because
you
don’t
need
luck—you
dance
like
an
angel.”
Her
daughter
replies,
“Mom,
you’re
the

best
luck
I’ll
ever
have,”
as
she
lovingly
touches
her
new
necklace,
which
will
later
become
talismanic

and
represent
her
past
life
and
forgotten
dreams.
This
opening
scene
is
especially
important
because

it
sets
the
tone
and
template
for
this
nascent
genre
and
all
the
Formula
Dance
Films
to
come.
The

dialogue
here
is
quite
literal,
leaning
towards
mawkish,
and
scenes
are
often
laden
with
heavy-‐
handed
symbolism
and
exaggeration—an
emphasis
on
affect
and
emotional
stakes
that
typifies
the

film
cycle.

After
the
necklace
scene,
a
tense
montage
intercuts
Sara’s
preparation
with
her
mother’s

chaotic
drive
through
traffic-‐choked
streets.
As
the
cuts
increase
in
rapidity
and
the
ominous
music

swells,
Sara’s
near
triumph
at
the
audition
is
juxtaposed
with
her
mother’s
fatal
car
accident,

catalyzing
the
action
and
leaving
Sara
with
the
irrational
guilt
that
her
dancing
caused
her
mother’s

death.
It
is
heightened
melodrama
at
its
purest,
and
it
effectively
elides
dance
with
trauma,
which
will

carry
Sara’s
character
through
the
run-‐time
and
allow
her
to
move
from
renunciation
to
revelation.

42

Ibid.,
148.

300

The
opening
tragedy
trope
becomes
a
recurrent
staple
in
the
Formula
Dance
Films
to
follow,
and
the

protagonists
usually
begin
the
narrative
having
suffered
a
harrowing
personal
loss
that
is
either

linked
directly
to
dance
or
to
their
environment.
Bereft
and
outwardly
hardened,
Sara
adopts
a

façade
of
icy
indifference
as
she
moves
in
with
her
jazz
musician
father.
Far
removed
from
the
cozy

suburban
warmth
of
her
previous
home
in
Lemont,
Sara
now
resides
in
a
cramped,
dingy,
Chicago

walk-‐up—a
masculinized
space
of
near-‐squalor
where
her
father
has
managed
to
clear
some
room

for
her
with
a
foldout
futon.
This
sudden
socio-‐economic
demotion
and
new
locale
would
be

disorienting
enough,
but
Sara’s
first
day
at
her
new
high
school
proves
even
more
of
a
culture
shock.

As
the
lone
white
face
in
a
sea
of
black
students,
the
director
only
utilizes
one
long
tracking
shot
from

Sara’s
p.o.v.
to
deliver
the
message:
this
white
girl
is
completely
out
of
place.
The
first
ten
minutes
of

the
film
has
been
scored
by
classical
orchestration
and
the
diegetic
music
of
Sara’s
audition,
but
the

moment
she
enters
the
campus,
blaring
rap
music
suddenly
dominates
the
soundtrack
and
becomes

the
sonic
accompaniment
to
her
unease.
The
film’s
aural
design
compounds
Sara’s
culture
shock,
as

rap
and
hip-‐hop
music
become
overwhelming
and
literally
drown
out
her
former
life.

Sara’s
skin
color
is
the
most
tangible
marker
of
difference
but
not
the
only
anomaly
in
her

appearance—she
is
conservatively,
even
primly
dressed
in
overalls,
glasses,
and
a
frumpy
sweater,

while
her
new
classmates
wear
on-‐trend,
baggy
street
gear.
Her
behavior
is
likewise
aberrant.

Unaccustomed
to
a
cutthroat
urban
environment,
she
naively
leaves
her
backpack
unattended
on
the

hallway
floor.
Observing
the
scene
with
wry
amusement,
a
stylishly
dressed
black
girl
pretends
to

steal
it,
serving
as
an
effective
intro
for
the
second
female
lead
Chenille
Reynolds
(Kerry

Washington).
As
Sara
frantically
looks
around
for
her
backpack,
Chenille
smiles
and
says,
“That’s
how

easy
it
is
to
give
to
charity
around
here.
Don’t
put
your
shit
on
the
floor.”
This
moment
establishes

Chenille
as
street-‐wise
but
kind,
ironically
resigned
to
her
environment
but
generous
of
spirit.
She

may
be
toughened
and
savvy,
but
she
is
also
nurturing
by
nature
and
immediately
wants
to
help
Sara.

This
impetus
to
save
the
white
girl
from
herself
will
become
the
key
narrative
and
thematic
drive
in

Save
the
Last
Dance,
as
the
benevolent
black
characters
support
and
protect
Sara,
while
the

antagonistic
blacks
seek
to
tear
her
down
and
destroy
her.
As
a
proto
Formula
Dance
Film,
Save
the

Last
Dance
works
in
broad
strokes
as
it
demarcates
the
borders
of
black
and
white
culture,
bringing

up
a
host
of
questions
and
complications
that
buttress
the
culture
clash
theme.

Taking
Sara
under
her
protective
wing,
Chenille
inducts
her
into
the
crew
that
includes
a

white
girl
named
Diggy.
Dressed
in
urban
gear
like
the
rest
of
her
clique,
Diggy
blends
into
the
group

despite
her
white
skin,
which
Chenille
mockingly
references
in
the
introductions:

301

Chenille:

This
is
Diggy.
She
thinks
she’s
down.

Diggy:

Excuse
me?
I
am
down,
okay!

It
is
a
brief
moment
that
sets
up
an
interesting
and
crucial
distinction:
an
ethnically
Caucasian

character
has
sufficiently
adopted
the
codes
and
styles
of
black
culture
and
the
cadence
of
black

speech
with
enough
credibility
to
be
accepted
by
the
rest
of
the
population.
This
touches
on
the

concept
of
race
and
culture
as
a
performance
and
voluntary
style—something
that
can
be
learned,

borrowed,
and
fully
appropriated.
This
suggestion
and
its
problematic
implications
will
continue

throughout
the
Formula
Dance
cycle,
sometimes
with
regressive
effects,
as
the
culture
of
origin
gets

deferred
and
deflected.

During
a
rare
classroom
scene,
Sara
demonstrates
her
bona
fides
by
actually
participating
in

a
discussion
of
Capote’s
In
Cold
Blood,
which
heartens
her
cynical
and
beleaguered
literature
teacher.

We
can
assume
by
inference
that
this
underpaid,
overworked
teacher
suffers
the
drudgery
and

frustration
of
any
public
school
instructor
who
serves
as
an
adhoc
parole
office
or
babysitter,
rather

than
a
true
educator.
When
Sara
opines,
the
teacher
registers
surprise
and
gratitude,
suggesting
that

no
one
in
class
ever
participates
or
cares—a
stereotype
about
inner
city
education,
but
one
that
is

also
depressingly
accurate.
Derek
is
the
only
other
student
to
contribute
and
he
immediately

contradicts
her:

Sara:
It’s
a
non-‐fiction
novel.
Capote
mixed
true
events
with
things
he
couldn’t
know
so
he

made
them
up.
He
created
a
new
genre.

Derek:
White
folks
back
then
felt
safe.
Capote
scared
them.
He
took
hard-‐core
crime
out
of

the
ghetto
and
placed
it
in
America’s
back
yard.
That’s
what
makes
the
book
special.

Sara:
Yeah,
that’s
part
of
it.

Derek:
That’s
all
of
it.
Capote
wasn’t
the
first.
Richard
Wright,
James
Baldwin
did
the
same

thing.
Wasn’t
nobody
trying
to
read
them,
though.

Sara:
A
lot
of
people
read
them.

Derek:
Like
who?
You?

Their
mock
debate
indicates
that
Derek
is
not
only
intelligent,
but
fiercely
competitive,
proud,
and

intent
on
undermining
and
reversing
negative
expectations
about
his
race
by
being
exceptional.
This

exchange
serves
multiple
functions
in
that
it
not
only
demonstrates
that
their
intellects
are
well-‐
matched
to
set
up
the
romance
narrative,
but
it
also
concurrently
draws
the
lines
of
a
racial
tension

that
will
recur
and
accelerate
as
the
narrative
progresses.
A
key
difference
is
that
we
expect
Sara
to

302

be
literate
and
articulate—she
is
after
all
a
white
ballerina
from
a
good
family
and
a
decent
school

system.
Derek
however,
is
meant
to
surprise
and
delight
us
with
his
acumen
and
eloquence,
and
in

this
moment
of
character
introduction,
Save
tentatively
wades
into
the
murky
waters
of
racial

representation.
As
a
dedicated
student
who
maintains
his
street
cred,
Derek
is
the
latest
cinematic

construction
of
what
Erica
Chito
Childs
calls
“exceptional
exceptions,”
in
Fade
to
Black
and
White:

Interracial
Images
in
Popular
Culture,
which
refers
to
black
characters
who
defy
stereotypes
and

exceed
expectations
by
surpassing
their
black
peers
or
even
besting
white
competition.
43

As
viewers,

we
are
meant
to
understand
and
approve
of
Derek’s
duality:
he
is
black
and
therefore
cool,
but

conversely,
he
is
black
therefore
potentially
a
criminal
or
a
socio-‐economic
victim
of
blighted

circumstance.
Accordingly,
we
must
be
assured
of
his
literacy,
his
motivation,
and
the
special

qualities
that
set
him
apart—in
other
words,
his
associatively
white
traits.
Derek's
conversance
with

literature,
the
sophistication
of
his
argument,
and
his
ability
to
speak
“proper”
English
as
opposed
to

Ebonics
all
code
him
as
a
unique
and

“different”
sort
of
black
man;
the
type
of
black
man
that
a
white

ballerina
could
eventually
fall
for.
Although
I
am
highlighting
the
problematic
aspects
of
this
portrait,

there
is
in
all
likelihood
no
correct
or
ameliorative
way
to
satisfactorily
stage
this
scene.
Every

decision—from
the
formal
properties
to
the
dialogue—would
have
a
loaded
implication
when

dealing
with
race
and
especially
interracial
relationships.
At
best,
the
mere
presence
of
this
issue
on

screen
creates
a
platform
and
a
space
for
honest
dialogue,
even
if
the
film
text
itself
cannot
resolve

the
knotty
issues
it
advances.

At
the
end
of
her
first
exhausting
day,
Sara
reunites
with
Derek
and
learns
that
he
is
actually

Chenille’s
brother,
cementing
the
friendship
triumvirate.
Chenille
invites
Sara
to
a
VIP
dance
club

called
Steppes,
but
Derek
is
skeptical,
assaying
her
as
a
bookish
wallflower.
Their
pointed
badinage
is

a
prelude
to
the
imminent
culture
clash:

Derek:

Steppes
ain’t
no
square
dance.

Sara:

That’s
ok.
I
dance
in
circles,
probably
around
you.

Her
posturing
and
“diss”
elicit
appreciative
laughs
from
the
group
and
she
proves
she
can
hold
her

own
in
the
trash-‐talking—an
initial
step
towards
her
induction
into
black
culture.
However,
Sara’s

43

Erica
Chito
Childs,
Fade
to
Black
and
White:
Interracial
Images
in
Popular
Culture.

(Lanham:
Rowman
&
Littlefield
Publishers
Inc,
2009)

303

first
night
at
Steppes
proves
disastrous.
The
club
scene
and
the
subsequent
instructional
scene
are

central
to
film’s
theme
of
culture
clash/fusion
and
the
future
trajectory
of
the
genre
as
a
whole.

The
Steppes
set-‐piece
and
the
two
dialogue
scenes
that
bookend
this
sequence
encompass
all

the
racial
and
romantic
tensions
in
Save
the
Last
Dance.
It
begins
with
a
social
faux
pas
that
addresses

several
key
sociological
realities
in
the
black
community,
and
ends
with
tentative
steps
towards

courtship
amidst
overwhelming
cultural
difference.
When
Sara
arrives
at
the
Reynolds
apartment,

Chenille
passes
off
a
fussy
baby
to
a
wizened
old
black
woman
called
Mama
Dean,
and
Sara

awkwardly
tries
to
place
the
generations
without
asking
outright.
Eventually
she
asks,
“That
baby…is

he
yours?”
to
which
Chenille
tartly
replies,
“Well
it
sure
ain’t
Mama
Dean’s.”
Chenille’s
status
as
a

single
teen
mom
is
part
of
the
social
problem
element
that
Save
and
future
dance
films
will
trade
on,

and
this
moment
sets
up
the
tone
and
tactics
by
continually
foregrounding
racial
issues
and
socio-‐
economic
disparities.
Sara’s
reaction
is
flustered
and
even
embarrassed,
as
she
tries
to
retract
her

words
and
apologize
for
seeming
prejudiced.
Unsure
of
how
to
negotiate
her
new
world,
she
clearly

wants
to
behave
as
an
open-‐minded,
tolerant
liberal,
but
she
is
still
obviously
shocked
by
the

prospect
of
a
17-‐year-‐old
with
a
child.
Wise
and
worn
beyond
her
years,
Chenille
quickly
dismisses

Sara’s
(and
perhaps
the
audience’s)
discomfort.
She
assures
Sara
that
it
is
simply
the
status
quo,
that

she
is
happy,
capable,
and
surviving,
and
that
it
needs
no
further
comment.
Even
though
Chenille

assuages
Sara’s
white
middle-‐class
guilt,
this
exchange
and
its
underlying
tension
segue
into
the

following
scenes
and
keep
the
racial
plotline
in
sharp
focus.

With
the
baby-‐mama
drama
behind
them,
Sara’s
concern
turns
towards
the
sartorial.
She

compliments
Chenille’s
ensemble,
and
Chenille
stops
short,
turns
around
and
corrects
her:

Sara:
Cool
outfit.

Chenille:
“Slammin.”

“Slammin”
outfit.

This
is
the
first
of
many
lessons
in
the
behavioral
codes
of
black
culture
and
coolness,
and
like
a

dutiful
ballet
student,
Sara
absorbs
the
correction.
After
observing
what
Chenille
and
her
homegirls

are
wearing
(sexy
club
attire
under
stylish
coats),
Sara
becomes
uncertain
and
persists,
“Really,
do
I

look
alright?”
After
a
beat,
Chenille
chooses
tactful
honesty
and
escorts
Sara
into
a
cab,
becoming
an

impromptu
stylist
as
she
flutters
and
fusses
over
her
new
project,
swapping
out
bits
of
her
own
outfit

and
borrowing
from
other
girls
to
achieve
the
desired
effect.
After
this
makeover,
Sara
emerges
in

what
amounts
to
a
twenty-‐first

century
blackface:
in
a
headwrap,
large
“door
knocker”
hoop
earrings,

and
tank
top,
she
looks
like
a
combination
hoodrat
hoochie
and
African
nationalist,
but
infinitely

304

cooler
than
her
original
outfit
and
appropriate
for
the
venue.
Sara
is
now
essentially
in
costume
to

blend
in
with
the
natives.
This
racial
makeover
could
easily
be
read
and
dismissed
as
part
of
the

female
camaraderie
endemic
to
“chick
flicks”—countless
films,
both
serious
and
comic,
have

makeover
scenes
and
audiences
love
the
transformative
act
of
a
Cinderella
narrative.
However,
the

implication
of
this
scene
cannot
be
ignored:
in
order
to
successfully
negotiate
the
all-‐black
interior
of

the
exclusive
Steppes
club,
Sara
must
assimilate
black
traits
and
“pass.”
Because
she
is
a
square
white

girl
trying
to
be
cool,
we
tend
to
obligingly
accept
this
blackface,
whereas
the
obverse
would
be
an

impossibility,
given
the
sanctions
of
our
scrupulously
PC
culture.
A
black
character
being
hustled
into

a
car
and
somehow
forced
to
whitewash
herself
to
gain
admittance
into
a
club
would
cause
protest

and
upheaval,
or
at
the
very
least,
it
would
be
the
narrative
focus
in
a
scene
about
racial
injustice.

Here,
it
is
a
naturalized
given
that
blacks
have
the
monopoly
on
effortlessly
cool
street
style,
and

according
to
the
film,
any
white
person
should
want
to
adopt
that
look.
This
inexorable
logic
is
the

driving
force
behind
the
Formula
Dance
genre,
not
to
mention
countless
media
products
and

advertisements
that
trade
on
the
unchallenged
ideology
and
desirability
of
black
culture.

Once
inside
Steppes,
Derek
takes
Sara
up
on
the
challenge
and
invites
her
to
dance,
“Wasn’t
I

supposed
to
feel
dizzy
by
all
those
circles
you
were
dancing
around
me?”
To
a
borrow
phrase
from

the
street,
she
“shows
her
ass,”
i.e.
makes
a
complete
fool
of
herself.
Sara’s
feeble
attempt
to
dance
is

a
caricature
of
cringe-‐inducing,
unhip
whiteness.
As
Richard
Dyer
humorously
recounts
in
“The

Matter
of
Whiteness,”
ingrained
beliefs
about
the
inferiority
of
white
social
dancing
are
hard
to

shake,
which
he
admits
in
a
self-‐deprecating
anecdote:

The
moment
that
crystallized
it
had
to
do
with
dancing.
Living
in
New
York
at
the
time

(1980),
I
went
out
dancing
a
lot
with
black
friends
to
black
venues;
I
had
a
black
music
radio

station
on
all
the
time;
I
could
not
have
been
more
into
it.
At
one
mixed-‐raced
social
event,

we
all
started
dancing
in
a
formation
copied
from
the
TV
series
Soul
Train,
two
lines
facing

each
other,
which
we
took
it
in
turns
to
dance
down
between.
For
all
my
love
of
dancing
and

funk,
I
have
never
felt
more
white
than
when
I
danced
down
between
those
lines.
I
know
it

was
stereotypes
in
my
head;
I
know
plenty
of
black
people
who
can’t
dance;
I
know

perceptions
of
looseness
and
tightness
of
the
body
are
dubious.
All
I
can
say
is
that
at
that

moment,
the
black
guys
all
looked
loose
and
I
felt
tight.
The
notion
of
whiteness
having
to

do
with
tightness,
with
self-‐control,
self-‐consciousness,
mind
over
body,
is
something
I

explore
below.
I
felt
it,
and
hated
it,
dancing
between
the
lines—and
hated
it
not
for
itself,

but
because
it
brought
home
to
me
that,
in
my
very
limbs,
I
had
not
the
kinship
with
black

people
that
I
wanted
to
have.
44

44

Richard
Dyer,
White
(New
York:
Routledge,
1997),
6.

305

Similarly,
Sara
is
the
stereotypic
lame
white
dancer
personified—she
can’t
keep
the
rhythm,
she

can’t
seem
to
anticipate
the
down
beat,
and
she
eventually
bumps
heads
with
Derek
when
he
leans
in

to
help.
As
Chenille
and
her
entourage
watch,
the
eventual
antagonist
Nikki
(Bianca
Lawson)
laughs

derisively
with
her
companions
and
scoffs,
“What’s
she
doin,
two
steppin’?”
indicating
a
rudimentary

back-‐and-‐forth
shuffle
that
is
the
refuge
of
those
who
don’t
know
how
to
dance.
Sara’s
appalling
lack

of
skill
lends
her
a
newfound
humility,
and
the
former
rivals
reach
a
détente
as
Derek
gently
and

patiently
guides
her
through
the
paces.
By
teaching
her
simple
steps,
she
imitates
his
footwork
and

he
eventually
molds
her
into
a
slightly
more
credible
club
dancer.
For
a
viewer
not
familiar
with

dance
training,
it
may
seem
inconceivable
that
a
skilled
ballerina
would
have
such
difficulty
staying

on
the
beat
and
mastering
a
simple
two-‐step.
However,
this
moment
is
actually
fairly
accurate.
Even

though
ballerinas
may
symbolize
the
pinnacle
of
technique
and
training,
their
skill
set
and
movement

vocabulary
is
not
automatically
transferrable
to
other
forms.
Granted,
their
ingrained
musicality,

grace,
and
flexibility
can
translate
into
many
other
forms
(lyrical,
modern,
jazz,
etc.)
but
other

specialized
forms
like
tap
and
most
especially
hip-‐hop
may
not
come
naturally
to
the
ballerina
and

can
prove
a
serious
challenge.
The
foundation
of
ballet
grammar
is
based
on
verticality,
linearity,
and

a
tight
control
over
the
trunk
of
the
body,
meaning
that
the
buttocks
and
hips
tend
to
work
as
an

immobilized
unit
with
a
perfectly
straight
spine.
Hip-‐hop
moves,
gestures,
and
postures
are

absolutely
antithetical
to
that,
requiring
a
looseness
in
the
hips,
a
sway
back,
and
lower
proximity
to

the
ground,
often
involving
hunched
or
slumped
shoulders
that
would
be
unthinkable
in
the
ballet

studio.
For
a
ballerina,
the
transition
from
port
de
bras
to
pop-‐and-‐locking
can
be
very
difficult.

Thanks
to
her
vulnerability
and
his
aptitude
as
a
teacher,
Sara
and
Derek
explore
their
newly

forged
bond
on
the
walk
home.
He
offers
to
meet
privately
with
her
after
school
to
work
on
her

moves.
“That’s
not
the
first
time
I’ve
heard
hip-‐hop
before,”
she
says
defensively
and
with
the
air
of

an
anthropologist
who
feigns
nonchalance
when
confronted
with
some
new
and
shocking
tribal

custom.
Again,
the
unquestioned
assumption
is
that
everyone
secretly
wants
to
access
the
innate

coolness
of
blacks,
to
the
point
where
a
milquetoast
character
will
showboat
and
pose
in
the
hopes
of

approximating
that
native
style.
Seizing
on
what
seems
to
be
a
mutual
attraction,
Derek
offers
a
final

word
of
flirtation
when
she
thanks
him
for
the
evening:

Derek:
So
was
that,
“Good
night,”
as
in
“I’ll
busta
cap
in
yo’
ass
if
you
ever
darken
my
door-‐
step

again”?

Sara:
No.
I
would
never,
um,
bust
a
cap
in
your
ass.

306

She
delivers
this
last
line
with
each
word
carefully
and
comically
over-‐enunciated.
Sara
is
a
self-‐
parody
of
the
uptight
white
person,
and
she
is
a
clear
candidate
for
a
crash
course
in
black
coolness.

The
next
sequence
is
a
montage
that
chronicles
Sara’s
initiation
into
black
coolness
and
it
is

the
thematic
lynchpin
of
Save
the
Last
Dance.
Derek
aptly
summarizes
the
philosophy
behind
hip-‐hop

culture
and
the
Formula
Dance
Film
cycle,
“Hip
hop
is
more
than
dance—it’s
an
attitude—you
gotta

loosen
up.”
Accordingly,
Sara’s
lesson
starts
with
the
basics
of
sitting
and
walking
before
she
can

even
contemplate
moving
to
the
complexities
of
dance.
Sara
sits
with
the
ram-‐rod
perfection
of
a

ballerina;
Derek
teachers
her
to
sit
with
a
cavalier
slouch,
“What,
you
sittin’
down
for
tea
or

something?
Relax,
let
it
be
natural.”
Sara
walks
with
the
telltale
straight
spine
and
turned-‐out
feet
of
a

dancer;
he
forces
her
to
saunter
and
swagger.
Only
after
Sara
masters
these
seemingly
innate

fundamentals
can
she
move
to
choreography,
which
suggests
that
hip-‐hop
is
also
a
mentality
and

lifestyle.
Derek
teaches
Sara
to
look
black,
act
black,
and
comport
herself
with
black
sangfroid,
and
if

the
message
weren’t
already
clear,
the
montage
ends
with
a
couplet,

Sara:

Now
I’m
cool,
right?

Derek:

Getting
there.

Although
later
Formula
Dance
Films
will
eventually
favor
the
dance
sequences
over
storyline

and
dialogue
scenes,
as
an
incipient
part
of
the
genre,
Save
retains
a
more
balanced
narrative
where

the
romance
plotline
and
the
social
commentary
subplots
have
proportionate
screen-‐time.
As
the

cycle
progresses,
subplots
and
even
the
romance
narrative
become
totally
subsidiary
to
the
dancing

set-‐pieces,
and
by
the
latest
installment
of
the
Step
Up
franchise
(2014),
extraneous
subplots
(and

one
could
argue
any
bid
for
characterization
or
narrative
coherence)
are
dispensed
with
in
favor
of

an
almost
entirely
musicalized
dance
film.
Here
however,
the
love
story
and
attendant
obstacles

maintain
centrality,
and
dance
serves
as
an
extended
metaphor.
Sara
and
Derek’s
union
faces
assault

and
criticism
from
external
agents,
including
his
former
flame,
his
former
partner
in
street
crime,
and

most
devastatingly
by
his
own
sister
Chenille.
As
the
main
antagonists,
Nikki
and
Malakai
represent

tandem
threats
that
attack
the
new
couple.
As
Derek’s
torch-‐holding
ex-‐girlfriend,
Nikki
poses
a

sexual
threat
to
Sara,
leading
to
insults,
confrontation,
and
eventually
a
physical
brawl.
Malakai
poses

an
even
more
serious
threat
given
his
involvement
in
street
crime
and
gang
violence.
Although

Malakai
has
resigned
himself
to
a
life
of
criminality,
he
believes
in
Derek’s
potential
and
wants
his

talented
friend
to
succeed
and
shed
the
ghetto
shackles.
However,
he
also
expects
fraternal
loyalty
in

return
for
his
sacrifice,
and
he
tries
to
recruit
Derek
to
assist
him
in
a
gang
turf
war.
Positioned
for

307

success
and
ascendancy
with
his
acceptance
to
Georgetown,
Derek
refuses
and
renounces
his
past

and
former
compatriots.
Given
these
circumstances,
Sara
and
Derek
become
star-‐crossed
lovers
in
an

urban
drama
of
racial
tension,
with
multiple
forces
trying
to
assail
them
and
prevent
their
union.

Judged
and
harangued
from
the
outside,
Sara
and
Derek
find
solace
in
their
own
microcosm.
As
such,

the
blending
of
their
dance
styles
serves
as
a
metonym
for
interracial
romance
and
their
mutually

earned
respect
and
respective
enlightenment.

As
the
multiple
narratives
hurtle
towards
convergence,
Malakai
commits
a
drive-‐by
shooting

and
gets
arrested
while
Sara
simultaneously
prepares
for
her
Julliard
audition.

Meanwhile,
Derek

flees
the
scene
to
support
her
and
demonstrate
his
love
and
faith.
The
sequence
deliberately
mirrors

the
bathos
and
melodrama
of
the
film’s
opening,
and
the
intercutting
and
tense
musical
scoring

suggest
that
history
might
repeat
itself;
that
Sara
is
cursed,
that
her
dreams
will
elude
her,
and
that

her
ambition
will
only
hurt
the
ones
she
loves.
This
suspenseful
montage
culminates
in
the
big
final

number—a
requisite
spectacular
showpiece
that
will
become
standard
issue
for
the
entire
genre.
The

staging
and
composition
of
the
Big
Audition
is
identical
in
every
dance
film.
Set
in
either
a
studio
or
a

theater
auditorium,
a
panel
of
stony-‐faced
adult
adjudicators
sit
and
watch,
usually
with
impassive
or

critical
expressions.
They
represent
the
anonymous
but
powerful
cultural
elite—custodians
of
high

art
who
serve
as
literal
and
metaphoric
gatekeepers
to
the
upper
stratosphere
of
cultural

achievement.
The
untrained,
street-‐bred
hopeful
is
automatically
intimidated
by
this
prestige,
and

the
judges
in
turn
are
immediately
suspect
of
any
would-‐be
dancer
who
does
not
conform
to
their

expected
standards.
As
discussed
in
the
previous
chapter,
Flashdance
set
the
stage
for
this
trope,
and

the
audition
scene
will
be
replicated
in
its
unaltered
original
form
throughout
this
millennial
dance

cycle.

In
this
particular
audition
scene,
Sara
has
the
advantage
of
classical
training,
so
her
high

culture
credentials
are
at
least
guaranteed
in
the
ballet
portion.
But
in
order
to
show
innovation
and

originality,
she
must
demonstrate
a
fusion
of
dance
traditions.
Her
two-‐part
audition
involves
a

classical
excerpt,
which
she
expectedly
performs
with
technical
precision
and
the
sort
of
detached

perfection
one
associates
with
icy
ballerinas.
For
her
second
piece,
we
are
meant
to
understand
it
as

a
showstopper—an
all-‐out,
celebratory,
and
wildly
inventive
culmination
of
everything
she
has

acquired
on
her
personal
journey.
The
piece
is
meant
to
showcase
her
own
balletic
skill
combined

with
Derek’s
hip-‐hop
moves,
and
fused
together
by
her
newfound
(implicitly
black)
confidence
and

style.
Donning
baggy
track
pants
over
her
leotard
and
tights,
Sara
performs
to
“All
or
Nothing”
by

Athena
Cage.
Only
a
few
bars
in,
Sara
slips
and
falls;
she
seems
to
have
completely
given
up
until

308

Derek
enters
through
the
back
of
the
auditorium,
runs
down
the
aisle,
and
mounts
the
stage,
much
to

the
judges
dismay,

(“How
did
he
get
in
here?
Who
let
him
in?!”)
As
the
supercilious
dance
director

gets
increasingly
impatient,
Derek
delivers
an
inspirational
speech
and
assures
Sara,
“You
were
born

to
do
this.”

Strengthened
by
his
encouragement
and
support,
Sara
resumes
her
audition.
This
time,

she
succeeds
and
the
judges
are
blown
away.

However,
from
a
technical
standpoint,
there
is
a
considerable
disconnect
between
the

diegetic
response
to
the
character
Sara’s
performance,
and
the
actual
dancing
performance
by

actress
Julia
Stiles.
Despite
the
considerable
energy
of
the
soundtrack,
the
nimble
camerawork,
and

the
accomplished
editing,
this
sequence
suffers
from
Stiles’
noticeable
lack
of
dance
training
and

technique.
Although
she
serviceably
performs
the
more
basic
hip-‐hop
moves,
her
carriage,
posture,

and
arm
movement
instantly
betray
her
as
a
non-‐dancer
and
definitely
not
a
ballerina.
Stiles’

shoulders
have
a
roundness
to
them
and
a
tendency
to
creep
up
towards
her
ears,
creating
a
slightly

hunched
posture
that
is
totally
uncharacteristic
of
ballet.
In
reality,
an
advanced
ballerina
would
have

spent
years
developing
a
gracefully
elongated
neck
to
achieve
the
famed
classical
“line.”
The

trademark
swanlike
fluidity
of
a
ballerina’s
arms
is
unmistakable
and
a
dead
give-‐away
for
the

untrained
or
untalented.
Consequently,
the
filmmakers
are
forced
to
extensively
use
a
body
double

for
the
more
challenging
moves,
which
in
turn
necessitates
a
series
of
awkward
cuts
and

substitutions
to
conceal
the
switch;
however,
no
amount
of
finesse
in
the
editing
room
can
conceal

the
blatant
cuts
to
a
wide
shot,
where
an
anonymous
dancing
figure
performs
in
place
of
Stiles.
Her

dance
double
is
only
filmed
from
behind
or
in
extreme
long
shot,
juxtaposed
with
close-‐up
and

medium
shots
of
Stiles
performing
the
most
elementary
types
of
moves.
The
saving
grace
of
this

number
is
the
combined
impact
of
song,
with
its
booming
bass
line
and
infectious
beat,
and
the

choreography,
which
is
still
compelling
even
when
attenuated
by
Stiles
or
filtered
through
the
proxy

of
a
body
double.
In
later
Formula
Dance
Films,
the
issue
of
creative
editing
and
concealment
is

completely
dispelled
by
casting
real
professional
dancers
in
the
lead
acting
roles.
With
the
exception

of
Honey
(2003),
Save
the
Last
Dance
is
the
only
film
in
the
genre
to
hire
a
name
celebrity
over
a

dancer,
and
as
the
first
of
the
cycle,
it
had
not
yet
perfected
the
right
stylistic
alchemy
and
balance

between
dancing
and
acting.

After
this
apparently
stunning
performance,
Derek
rushes
the
stage
with
jubilant
whoops
as

he
embraces
and
kisses
Sara.
The
camera
cuts
to
the
judges
who
are
visibly
discomfited
and

perturbed
by
the
intrusion
of
this
random,
boisterous
black
man
invading
their
hallowed
halls.

Ironically
they
have
no
idea
that
he
is
a
medical
school-‐bound
prodigy,
and
they
have
a
kneejerk

309

reaction
to
his
race,
his
brash
behavior,
and
his
obvious
romantic
link
to
Sara.
It
is
a
subliminally

quick
moment
but
it
powerfully
alludes
to
the
prejudice
and
assumptions
that
interracial
couples

continually
face.
He
does
nothing
to
allay
their
fears
when
he
indulges
in
ghetto
diction
and
says
“All

due
respect,
if
y’all
don’t
let
this
girl
in,
you’re
crazy.”
Although
Derek
may
have
transcended
the

systemic
obstacles
of
his
surroundings,
he
still
“keeps
it
real”
and
remains
authentic
to
his
street

heritage.
According
to
the
logic
of
Save
the
Last
Dance,
you
can
go
to
college
and
still
use
street
slang.

The
stiff,
uptight
white
judge
breaks
out
into
a
slight
smile,
“I
can’t
say
this
on
the
record
yet,
but

welcome
to
Julliard.”
The
credits
roll
as
the
couple
celebrates
by
dancing
at
Steppes,
surrounded
by

the
rest
of
the
cast.
Sara
and
Derek
have
both
achieved
their
dreams,
and
dance
once
again
becomes
a

panacea
for
every
problem
and
a
metaphor
for
their
love.
In
contrast
to
their
first
encounter
at

Steppes
where
they
were
quite
literally
out
of
sync,
the
united
lovers
now
move
sensuously
as
one.

Their
rhythmic
harmony
could
only
be
attained
though
cultural
fusion
and
mutual
appreciation,
and

dance
was
the
key
to
this
new
parity.
Whatever
trouble
they
will
undoubtedly
face
as
a
couple
is

temporarily
washed
away
in
the
pleasure
of
dancing.

A
Black
and
White
Issue:
Interracial
Romance
and
the
Return
of
the
“Good
Negro”

It
has
been
almost
a
century
since
Birth
of
a
Nation
galvanized
American
audiences,
and
while

the
film
is
still
lauded
for
its
narrative
and
technical
contributions
to
cinema,
Griffith’s
epic
has
been

roundly
disavowed
for
its
libelous
racism
and
politics.
The
audacious
racism
includes
a
gross

depiction
and
defamation
of
blacks
as
either
good
or
evil:
good
meaning
servile,
passive,
and
loyal
to

white
masters,
bad
meaning
lustful,
loutish,
devious,
and
bent
on
terrorizing
white
women.
These

offensive
depictions
are
now
the
repugnant
remnant
of
a
bygone
age,
and
yet
despite
the
passage
of

time
and
momentous
progress
in
Civil
Rights,
contemporary
film
still
(perhaps
unknowingly)
trades

on
the
characterization
of
“good”
and
“bad”
black
people.
In
Save
the
Last
Dance,
the
good
blacks
are

clearly
Chenille
and
her
brother
Derek,
not
only
because
they
have
strong
morals
and
good
hearts,

but
because
they
essentially
exist
to
aid,
instruct,
and
uplift
the
helpless
and
hapless
white
heroine.
In

contrast,
the
bad
blacks
want
nothing
more
than
to
impede
Sara’s
journey
and
cause
strife.

Embodied
by
Nikki
and
Malakai,
these
bad
blacks
represent
the
more
negative
stereotypes
of

African
Americans
i.e.
they
are
driven
by
more
bestial
and
uncivilized
impulses
of
sexuality
and

violence:
Nikki
hates
Sara
because
of
her
race
and
moreover
her
sexual
jealousy,
since
Sara
has

attracted
Nikki’s
former
flame.
Their
animosity
spirals
out
of
control
as
Nikki
becomes
increasingly

aggressive,
climaxing
in
an
all-‐out
catfight
during
gym
class.
As
the
two
wounded
parties
sit
in

punishment,
Nikki
reveals
the
underlying
cause
of
her
hatred,
“It’s
about
you.
White
girls
like
you,

310

creepin’
up,
taking
our
men.
The
whole
world
ain’t
enough,
you
gotta
conquer
ours
too?”
This
line

speaks
directly
to
white
hegemony
and
cultural
imperialism-‐-‐Nikki
is
essentially
accusing
Sara
of

eating
the
Other,
of
venturing
into
an
exotic
world
where
she
does
not
belong
and
taking
what

belongs
to
others
without
considering
the
impact
and
repercussions.
It
is
a
powerful
statement
that

is
seldom
dealt
with
in
a
mainstream
film,
especially
not
a
light-‐hearted
teenage
romance.
However
it

is
a
very
real
issue
for
women
in
the
black
community,
although
the
delivery
is
slightly
compromised

by
context
because
the
sentiment
comes
from
a
combative
character
who
speaks
as
a
scorned
ex-‐
lover.

As
the
second
antagonist
and
“evil”
black,
Malakai
resents
Sara
because
he
sees
her
presence

as
a
threat
to
his
dominance
and
world
order.
He
claims
that
Sara
has
distracted
Derek
and
lured
him

from
his
proper
existence
(i.e.
the
hood
life)
and
into
a
false
identity
that
Malakai
deems
pretentious

and
inauthentic,
and
he
accuses
his
former
friend
of
selling
out
and
compromising,
“I
don’t
even

know
who
you
are
no
more
Derek.”

Sara
tells
Derek,
“Malakai
is
scary.
Very
scary”
and
her
fear
is

justified
by
the
narrative
and
visual
representation
of
her
nemesis.
Fredro
Starr
who
plays
Malakai

has
a
vulpine
face
with
sharply
chiseled
bone
structure
and
slanted,
piercing
eyes.
In
each
scene,
the

staging,
framing,
and
lighting
give
him
a
threatening,
demonic
aspect.
However
a
white
woman

saying
that
he
is
“scary”
is
also
a
loaded
statement
that
trades
on
age-‐old
cautionary
tales
of
black

men
terrorizing
white
females.
One
has
to
wonder
if
the
Malakai
character
were
white
but
with
the

same
vicious
traits,
would
Sara
still
find
him
as
“scary”?

As
part
of
the
genre
formula,
the
central
black
character
will
frequently
face
internalized

conflict
caused
by
his
desire
to
better
himself
and
escape
from
the
dead-‐end
reality
of
his
current

environment.
In
Save
the
Last
Dance,
this
thrust
provides
the
secondary
plotline
in
which
Malakai

wants
Derek
to
make
good
on
a
debt
and
accompany
him
on
a
drive-‐by
that
will
continue
the
cyclical

violence
of
gang
warfare.
Derek’s
refusal
and
his
insistence
that
there
is
more
to
life
than
nihilistic

vengeance
contribute
to
the
film’s
social
problem
element,
which
often
borders
on
pedantic.
When

Derek
tries
to
dissuade
Malakai,
they
have
a
telling
exchange
that
speaks
to
both
the
implacable

nature
of
criminality
in
the
‘hood
and
to
Derek’s
own
special
qualities:

Derek:

This
shit
is
nonsense—it’s
dangerous
nonsense.

Malakai:

I'm
not
you,
Derek.
I
can't
do
nothin'
but
what
I'm
doin'.
I
can't
go
to
Georgetown

with
a
10.0
GPA,
operatin'
on
people,
doin'
brain
surgery
or
whatever
the
hell
you're
goin'
to

be
doin'.
All
I
have
is
my
respect
and
that’s
what
I
gotta
take
care
of.

311

As
an
“exceptional
exception,”
Derek
enacts
the
frequent
depiction
of
above-‐average
or
even
savant-‐
like
black
characters
in
film
and
television
who
not
only
subvert
public
expectation
but
even

supersede
whites
in
terms
of
talent,
intellect,
and
performance.
These
African
Americans
are
part
of
a

cultural
elect
whose
special
abilities
make
them
superior
and
endow
them
with
a
responsibility
to

serve
as
a
positive
credit
to
their
race.
In
fictional
representations,
this
lionized
black
male
becomes

even
more
crucial
when
the
narrative
ventures
into
the
still-‐inflammatory
topic
of
interracial

romance.
In
order
to
temper
the
potential
outcry,
ire,
or
skepticism
of
a
black
and
white
union,
the

black
man
in
the
couple
will
necessarily
be
superlative,
and
even
then,
happily
ever
after
is
never

assured.
Save
the
Last
Dance
is
unique
in
that
it
ultimately
depicts
a
respectful,
healthy,
and
loving

interracial
relationship,
but
it
is
definitely
not
the
norm:

There
are
virtually
no
examples
of
a
black
man
paired
in
a
successful
relationship
with
a

white
woman
on-‐screen,
no
matter
how
exceptional
he
may
be.
One
of
the
only
exceptions

is
the
2001
MTV-‐produced
blockbuster
film
Save
the
Last
Dance
(2001),
geared
for
the

teen/college-‐aged
generation,
which
grossed
over
90
million
dollars.
The
film
fits
many
of

the
patterns
presented
such
as
deviance
and
opposition,
but
it
also
fits
the
pattern
of

partnering
a
white
woman
an
“exceptional”
man
of
color.
45

While
Malakai
acknowledges
Derek’s
exceptionalism,
he
also
wants
him
to
remember
his
place.

Malakai
holds
an
almost
Satanic
power
over
Derek
in
his
attempts
to
lure
him
into
recidivism,
so

when
Derek
chooses
Sara,
it
is
shown
as
an
act
of
renunciation
and
salvation.
Both
Nikki
and
Malakai

hate
Sara
first
and
foremost
because
of
her
race,
and
secondly
for
her
involvement
in
their
previously

hermetic
lives.
In
a
film
that
valorizes
cultural
fusion
as
a
curative,
the
characters
that
oppose

coexistence
are
automatically
suspect
and
villainous.
Consequently,
in
this
and
other
narratives
that

feature
a
mixed-‐raced
couple,
the
antagonists
are
frequently
dissenting
members
from
the
minority

group
itself,
which
is
a
convenient
tactic
that
shifts
blame
and
absolves
potential
white
guilt:

Latino
and
black
characters
become
the
voices
of
opposition
to
interracial
unions,
implying

their
views
are
racist
and
exclusionary,
while
the
white
characters
are
presented
as
open-‐
minded
and
accepting…These
characterizations
serve
to
release
whites
from
any

responsibility
for
racism
or
opposition
to
interracial
relationships.
This
fits
in
with
the
safe

color-‐blind
model
where
the
black
or
minority
character
is
removed
from
his
or
her
racial

community
happily
living
among
whites,
and
most
likely
to
be
the
one
who
has
the
problem

with
the
interracial
relationships.
A
color-‐blind
approach
to
interracial
relationships
does

not
make
us
forget
race,
but
rather
we
simply
interpret
the
interaction
within
the
existing

understandings
of
race.
In
these
relationships
and
the
lives
of
the
African
American,
Latina,

and
Asian
characters,
race
is
rarely
addressed
and
the
relationships
are
never
put
forth
as

long-‐term
but
rather
distractions
on
the
way
to
real
love
or
for
comic
effect…When

45

Childs,
Fade
to
Black
and
White,
107.

312

opposition
to
interracial
unions
is
addressed,
it
tends
to
be
depicted
as
a
problem
of
one

racist
white
individual
or
group
or
more
commonly
a
problem
for
black
and
minority

communities.
46

Given
American
cinema’s
fraught
history
with
depictions
of
interracial
romance,
this

effacement
is
not
insignificant.
Although
we
arguably
live
in
a
more
accepting
time,
in
our
recent

cinematic
past
those
representations
were
anathema,
restricted
and
regulated
by
the
Production

Code.
In
Section
II
of
Particular
Applications
under
the
heading
of
“Sex,”
the
Code
lists
the
sixth

offense
as
follows,
“Miscegenation
(sex
relationships
between
the
white
and
black
races)
is

forbidden.”
47

Interracial
relationships
were
considered
as
equally
distasteful
and
inappropriate
as

depictions
of
rape,
prostitution,
or
venereal
disease
and
the
subject
was
treated
as
a
flagrant

aberration.
This
stipulation,
along
with
the
rest
of
the
Production
Code’s
stringent
proscriptions

lasted
as
legislation
well
into
the
late
1960s.
Consequently,
it
is
still
important
and
relevant
to

address
storylines
about
interracial
unions
on
film,
as
much
as
we
may
wish
to
be
post-‐race
or
color-‐
blind.
Even
though
early
Formula
Dance
Films
have
been
hampered
by
a
didactic
“message”

sentiment,
this
may
ultimately
be
preferable
to
the
regression
or
disavowal
witnessed
in
the
more

recent
versions.
In
the
latest
installments
of
the
dance
genre,
white
bodies
consume
and
assimilate

black
culture
and
black
cultural
signifiers,
while
breezily
mitigating
the
conflict
in
a
visual
and

narrative
whitewashing.

In
multiple
interviews,
director
Thomas
Carter
has
stated
that
one
of
his
key
interests
from

the
film’s
inception
was
in
exploring
and
expanding
on
the
very
real
and
highly
sensitive
topic
of

black
men
involved
with
white
women,
with
special
attention
to
the
dissenting
opinions
from
the

black
female
community.
48

As
a
late
addition
to
the
final
screenplay,
the
confrontation
scene
between

Sara
and
Chenille
offers
unflinching
insight
into
both
sides
of
the
interracial
debate.
Just
as
Derek’s

dance
tutelage
is
central
to
the
film’s
theme
of
cultural
fusion,
this
scene
gets
to
the
heart
of
the

romance
narrative
and
the
discord
it
causes.
While
waiting
with
Chenille
and
her
sick
baby
in
an

understaffed
county
hospital,
Sara
finds
herself
surrounded
by
squalling
children
and
indigent

families,
all
of
whom
have
black
faces
and
stare
at
her
white
face
with
benign
curiosity.
Sara
is

already
feeling
uncomfortable
and
steeped
in
white
middle-‐class
guilt,
when
Chenille
blindsides
her

46

Ibid.,
54-‐55.

47

Martin
Quigley
and
Daniel
Lord,
“Motion
Picture
Production
Code,”
1930.

48

Thomas
Carter,
in
discussion
with
the
author,
May
2012.

313

with
a
tirade
in
a
heated
conversation.
Sara
voices
the
earnest
protestation
of
a
well-‐meaning
liberal,

while
Chenille
divulges
the
pain
at
the
root
of
a
black
woman’s
predicament:

Chenille:

You
and
Derek
act
like
it
don’t
bother
people
to
see
you
two
together.

Like
it

don’t
hurt
people
to
see.

Sara:

We
like
each
other.
What
is
the
big
damn
deal?
It’s
me
and
him,
not
us
and
other

people.

Chenille:

Black
people,
Sara.
Black
women.
Derek’s
about
something.
He’s
smart.
He’s

motivated.
He’s
for
real.
He’s
not
just
gonna
make
some
babies
and
not
take
care
of
them,
or

run
the
streets
messing
up
his
life.
He’s
gonna
make
something
of
himself,
and
here
you
come,

white
so
you
gotta
be
right,
and
you
take
one
of
the
few
decent
men
we
have
after
jail,
drugs,

and
drive-‐bys.
That
is
what
Nikki
means
about
you
up
in
our
world.

Sara:

There’s
only
one
world,
Chenille

Chenille:

That
is
what
they
teach
you.
We
know
different.

Duane
Adler’s
screenplay
uses
Chenille
as
a
mouthpiece
for
the
widespread
but
rarely
voiced

discontent
that
black
women
feel
about
interracial
relationships.
The
fact
that
Chenille
is
tolerant
and

accepting
in
every
other
aspect
but
still
reticent
about
mixed-‐race
romance
is
highly
significant
and

realistic.
Chenille
is
clearly
welcoming
and
generous
towards
Sara
and
more
than
happy
to
impart

black
culture
on
this
outsider,
but
even
she
has
her
limits
when
it
comes
to
sex,
love,
and

relationships.
This
characterization
lends
dimension
and
complexity
to
the
debate
and
legitimates

the
concerns
of
black
women.
To
black
viewers,
it
is
the
fictional
dramatization
of
a
delicate
problem

and
thorny
issue
in
the
community.
Nikki
is
portrayed
as
a
jealous
hater
so
we
easily
dismiss
her

vitriol,
but
Chenille
is
the
second
female
lead
and
her
articulation
of
the
problem
gives
it
credence

and
may
even
be
edifying
to
non-‐black
viewers.
Further
complicating
the
issue,
Chenille
later

apologizes
and
claims
that
her
own
personal
struggles
with
her
baby’s
absentee
father
spurred
her

outburst.
In
reference
to
this
retraction,
Childs
writes:

This
conversation
is
important
because
it
characterizes
Sara
and
Derek’s
relationship
in

individual
terms
and
reproduces
the
idea
that
anyone
can
succeed
if
they
are
a
good,
smart,

and
hard-‐working
person
regardless
of
race,
which
shows
Derek
as
a
positive
person
while

implicating
the
rest
of
his
black
community
as
responsible
for
their
lack
of
success.
49

Considering
its
generic
limitations
as
a
teen-‐oriented
dance
film,
Save
the
Last
Dance
is

surprisingly
forthright
in
addressing
the
volatile
topic
of
miscegenation,
and
yet
even
as
it
makes

provocative
inquiries,
the
film
refuses
to
fully
address
entrenched
racism
and
systemic
problems.

49

Childs,
Fade
to
Black
and
White,
108.

314

Instead,
the
racial
conflict
gets
realigned
and
situated
within
the
antagonistic
characters
whose

intolerant
ideology
can
be
excused
as
individual
bigotry
and
close-‐mindedness.
By
redirecting
the

focus,
Save
is
able
to
maintain
its
fairytale-‐like
romance
where
dance
can
unite
factions
and
love

prevails.
Childs
summarizes
the
film’s
double-‐edged,
unstable
ideology:

The
complexity
of
interracial
relationships
and
societal
responses
is
illustrated
because
this

movie
depicts
both
support
and
opposition
for
interracial
relationships,
yet
ultimately
it

reproduces
many
of
the
negative
images
of
black
women
and
black
men
that
are
referenced

in
qualitative
studies
of
how
black
men
and
women
feel
about
interracial
dating
and
why

interracial
relationship
are
problematic.
The
movie
ends
with
the
message
that
echoes
the

color-‐blind
discourse
prevalent
in
society
that
reduces
the
problem
of
race
to
individuals,

and
like
the
color-‐blind
discourse
that
dominates
American
society,
the
movie
concludes

that
despite
the
opposition
of
blacks,
these
two
individuals
can
come
together
and
find

happiness
because
Derek
is
not
like
other
black
men.
50

The
subject
and
suggestion
of
insurmountable
racial
difference
is
a
profound
issue,
especially

for
a
mainstream
teen
film
like
Save
the
Last
Dance
that
is
purportedly
about
dance
and
romance,
but

Carter
took
a
chance
by
foregrounding
the
topic.
For
all
its
superficial
trappings
and
romanticized

conventions,
the
film
is
also
resistive,
politicized,
and
significant
both
to
the
dance
genre
and
to
racial

representation
on
film
as
a
whole.
It
is
only
later
in
the
cycle
that
what
was
once
a
radical
thematic

gets
diluted,
reoriented,
and
completely
excised,
as
the
entire
cycle
becomes
progressively

whitewashed.
In
Save
the
Last
Dance,
blackness,
racial
conflict,
and
eventual
utopian
fusion
are

foregrounded
through
the
metaphoric
linkage
of
dance
styles
and
the
romantic
storyline
of

interracial
coupling.
Saved
is
an
admittedly
idealized
vision
that
glosses
over
residual
issues
in
an

idealized
fantasy
of
synthesis.
However,
it
also
acknowledges
the
persistence
of
racism,
the
endemic

problems
faced
by
urban
youth,
and
the
virulent
stereotypes
that
impact
minorities,
both
externally

and
from
within
the
black
community
itself.
The
subsequent
films
of
the
cycle
similarly
follow
the

formula
of
a
multiracial
cast,
a
central
romance,
and
a
show-‐stopping
final
dance
set-‐piece,
but
as
we

shift
towards
the
cycle’s
crystallization,
the
blackness
has
conveniently,
silently,
and
disturbingly

disappeared.
Starting
with
Step
Up
in
2006,
the
genre
formula
remains
exactly
the
same,
but
white

characters
precipitously
replace
minority
characters,
effectively
removing
the
racial
element
while

retaining
the
culture
clash
between
street
and
classical
dance.
Importantly,
screenwriter
Duane
Adler

penned
both
Save
and
Step
Up,
which
resulted
in
nearly
identical
narratives
and
thematic
conflict.

However,
in
the
latter
film,
it
is
now
acceptable
to
have
a
white
boy
from
the
wrong
side
of
the
tracks

appropriate
just
enough
connotative
black
signifiers
to
be
convincingly
authentic,
allowing
us
to
read

50

Ibid.,
108.

315

him
as
‘hood
and
street,
without
bringing
in
the
troubling
aspect
of
dark
skin.
He
can
have
a
romance

with
the
prim,
serious
white
ballerina
without
having
to
address
the
issue
of
race
and
race
relations,

which
become
reconfigured
as
an
issue
of
class
difference
and
culture
clash.

316

5.
Battlegrounds:
Street
Style
and
the
Competition
Dance
Film

The
competition
dance
film
is
a
distinct
subset
of
the
Formula
Dance
genre,
based
on
the

dramatic
intrigue
and
inherent
oppositional
conflict
of
real
life
dance
battles
that
flourish
in
urban

centers
across
America
and
even
internationally.
These
battle
films
have
established
the
narrative

trope
of
the
“crew”—a
tight
knit
communal
alliance
of
street-‐wise
dancers,
all
of
whom
hold
major

stakes
in
the
outcome
of
a
heralded
final
competition.
In
battle
films,
the
crews
are
typically
all
black

or
pointedly
mixed-‐race
(token
Asians
and
Latinos
are
common),
but
the
demographic
is
definitively

non-‐
white
and
issues
of
race
and
appropriation
are
still
very
much
at
play.
In
both
fictional
films
and

stylized
documentaries,
the
dance
competition
has
become
iconographic
within
the
Formula
Dance

Film
cycle,
and
it
serves
as
a
structural
device
that
encompasses
both
plot
progression
and
dance

interludes.
The
dance
crew
itself
is
essential
to
the
competition
narrative,
resulting
in
ensemble
cast

performances,
and
You
Got
Served
(2004)
marks
the
foundational
competition
film
in
the
Formula

Dance
cycle.

With
an
emphasis
on
loyalty
and
familial
bonds,
the
drama
in
these
films
derives
from

Shakespearean-‐level
betrayals,
machinations,
and
impassioned
speeches
meant
to
rally
the
battle-‐
weary
troupe.
A
competition
film
takes
great
care
to
establish
and
emphasize
the
insular
nature
of

dance
crews,
which
are
almost
exclusively
composed
of
street
kids
who
skirt
the
edges
of
criminality

while
using
dance
as
an
outlet
and
diversion
from
thug
life
in
the
“hood.”
The
crew
is
constructed
as

an
honorary
family:
brothers
(and
occasionally
sisters)
with
an
unbreakable
bond
and
code
of
ethics

that
applies
not
only
behaviorally,
but
also
to
their
repertoire
of
dance
moves.
Consequently,

arguments
over
choreographic
ownership,
accusations
of
artistic
theft,
and
controversy
over
the

originator
become
moral
dilemmas
and
cause
for
outrage
and
renunciation.
The
ephemeral
nature
of

live
dance
creates
an
inimitable
aura,
but
it
also
becomes
especially
difficult
to
locate
and
fixate

artistic
copyright,
ascribe
authorship,
or
document
singular
performances.
Even
classical
ballet,

which
benefits
from
substantial
cultural
and
institutional
support,
must
struggle
to
reconstruct
its

canon,
as
evidenced
by
the
numerous
foundations
and
retrospectives
dedicated
to
archiving
and

replicating
the
work
of
famed
choreographers.
Even
within
the
upper
echelon
of
concert
dance,

attribution
and
re-‐creation
proves
tricky,
so
the
obstacles
facing
an
improvisational
and
unfunded

street
subculture
are
even
more
daunting.
There
is
a
distinct
grass-‐roots
element
to
the

documentation
of
hip-‐hop
and
break-‐dancing,
and
the
participants
often
film
their
own
dances
for

posterity,
or
as
a
form
of
unofficial
copyright.
In
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
we
constantly
see
the

dancers
become
their
own
biographers
by
capturing
and
memorializing
their
signature
moves,

317

performances,
and
competitions
on
camera,
which
lends
a
sense
of
bottom-‐up
agency.
However,
this

self-‐styled
outlet
becomes
compromised
when
outside
forces
from
the
mainstream
infiltrate
an

urban
environment
to
document
or
pilfer
these
subcultures,
and
an
inevitable
cultural
imperialism

occurs.

What
becomes
increasingly
clear
and
troubling
is
that
in
this
street
economy
of
shared
tradition,

the
grammar
and
vocabulary
of
dance
is
passed
on
through
demonstration
and
imitation,
and
while

choreography
cannot
technically
be
protected
as
intellectual
property,
the
moves
were
still

conceived
by
a
creator
at
one
point.
This
is
of
utmost
importance
in
the
competition
dance
film,
since

a
crew’s
talent,
relevance,
and
freshness
is
entirely
dependent
on
staying
innovative
and
imaginative,

and
by
exciting
the
crowd
and
judges
with
moves
that
have
never
been
seen
before.
Consequently,

within
the
ethical
code
of
the
diegetic
dance
crew
and
the
competition
film
as
a
whole,
the
cardinal

sin
is
stealing
or
“biting”
someone
else’s
moves.
This
transgression
is
viewed
as
utterly
unforgivable.

Accordingly,
some
of
the
most
heinous
betrayals
in
the
competition
film
are
when
one
seditious

member
defects
from
the
crew
and
joins
another,
thus
breaking
the
supposedly
unbreakable
bonds

of
fraternity;
worse
yet,
the
traitor
often
shares
or
covertly
leaks
choreography
to
a
rival
team.
In

keeping
with
the
clannish
mentality
and
overriding
thematic
of
the
battleground,
the
rogue
dancer

gets
permanently
excommunicated
by
the
crew.
“Battling”
is
no
hyperbole
in
these
films:
the
crew

takes
it
seriously,
and
in
many
cases
urban
violence
and
criminality—reinforced
so
heavily
by
the

locale
and
mise
en
scène—are
simmering
just
below
the
surface,
often
erupting
into
fights,
mob

scenes,
and
shootings.

Many
of
these
films
are
subtended
by
a
sense
of
impending
death
and
the

perilous
mortality
of
street
life,
and
dance
represents
a
rare
outlet,
which
Katrina
Hazzard-‐Donald

addresses
in
“Dance
in
Hip-‐Hop
Culture”:

Hip
hop
dance
permits
and
encourages
a
public
(and
private)
male
bonding
that

simultaneously
protects
the
participants
from
and
presents
a
challenge
to
the
racist
society

that
marginalized
them.
This
dance
is
not
necessarily
observer
friendly;
its
movements

establish
immediate
external
boundaries
while
enacting
an
aggressive
self-‐definition.
Hip

hop’s
outwardly
aggressive
postures
and
gestures
seem
to
contain
and
channel
the
dancer’s

rage.
51

Scenes
of
violence
serve
as
a
palpable
reminder
of
just
how
tenuous
ghetto
existence
can
be,
and
how

these
dance
crews
impose
a
certain
order
and
civility
on
what
is
portrayed
as
a
vicious
urban
jungle.

51

Katrina
Hazzard-‐Donald,
“Dance
In
Hip-‐
Hop
Culture,”
in
That’s
the
Joint:
The
Hip-Hop

Studies
Reader,
eds.
Murray
Foreman
and
Mark
Antony
Neal
(New
York:
Routledge,
2004,),

512.

318

In
these
films,
the
options
are
limited.
You
can
join
a
gang
or
join
a
dance
crew,
but
either
way,
life
is

rough
and
short.

The
competition
dance
film
is
especially
conducive
for
formulaic
narrative
structure,
given
the

very
nature
of
its
subject:
by
chronicling
a
competition
season,
with
various
rounds
and
prelims,

there
is
a
built-‐in
temporal
progression
with
increasingly
important
stakes,
climaxing
in
a
final
all-‐or-‐
nothing
showdown.
When
it
adheres
to
the
pattern,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
is
failsafe
in
creating

mounting
stakes
with
an
entertaining
payoff
in
the
“final
battle”
numbers.
Moreover,
this
tactic

guarantees
audience
identification
and
investment
through
the
always
compelling
spectacle
of

attractive,
talented
young
dancers.
In
addition
to
pride
and
bragging
rights,
these
competitions
often

involve
a
major
cash
prize,
a
bet,
or
some
equally
momentous
reward
riding
on
the
outcome,
so
the

fate
of
the
protagonists
is
determined
by
the
final
dance
scene,
forcing
them
to
quite
literally
dance

for
their
lives
and
their
futures.

You
Got
Served

Perhaps
more
than
any
other
film
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle,
You
Got
Served
is
hampered

and
ultimately
limited
by
its
technical
flaws
and
literary
design,
resulting
in
an
earnest
if
amateurish

contribution
to
the
genre.
However,
with
its
2004
release,
it
is
also
a
seminal
work
that
establishes

the
framework
of
the
competition
dance
narrative
that
will
be
replicated
throughout
the
decade.

Directed
by
Chris
Stokes
and
released
by
Screen
Gems,
the
relatively
meager
$8
million
production

budget
yielded
over
$48
million
in
box
office
returns
and
secured
the
top
position
its
opening

weekend.
Cast
with
first-‐time
actors
and
a
neophyte
director,
the
demonstrable
sense
of

inexperience
leads
to
some
very
shaky
and
uneven
moments,
including
stilted
line
delivery,
risible

dialogue,
and
editing
so
abrupt
that
it
almost
seems
avant
garde.
The
erratic
narrative
is
not

intentional
enough
to
be
properly
called
experimental,
but
just
fractured
enough
to
be
confusing
and

ill-‐paced.
These
faults
however
are
actually
symptomatic
and
definitional
of
the
cycle
itself,
since
the

emphasis
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film
is
resolutely
and
unerringly
on
the
dancing,
often
leaving
acting

and
non-‐dance
scenes
as
secondary
concerns.
The
significance
of
this
film
lies
beneath
the
surface

level
defects,
as
we
witness
a
nascent
genre
beginning
to
crystallize
and
form
an
incipient
set
of

myths,
conventions,
and
iconographies.
You
Got
Served
introduces
the
formulae
that
will
come
to

define
and
mobilize
the
urban
dance
film;
a
film
cycle
that
remains
viable
and
renewable
through
its

very
simplicity
and
its
rudimentary
but
ultimately
satisfying
structure.

319

Like
many
of
its
counterparts,
You
Got
Served
is
intertwined
with
MTV
in
terms
of
personnel,

marketing,
and
style.
Given
the
Formula
Dance
Film’s
reliance
on
music
industry
tie-‐ins
and
ancillary

soundtrack
sales,
this
union
usually
creates
a
logical
and
productive
symbiosis,
since
these
movies

are
so
heavily
influenced
by
music
video
aesthetics
and
popular
recording
artists.
However,
in
the

case
of
You
Got
Served,
the
MTV
pedigree
actually
becomes
a
detriment.
It
marks
Chris
Stokes'
first

major
foray
into
theatrical,
feature-‐length
film
after
coming
from
a
music
industry
career
as
a
top

producer,
talent
manager,
and
music
video
director.
Presiding
over
Interscope
Records,
he

discovered,
polished,
and
publicized
the
hip-‐hop
group
B2K
and
collaborated
with
established
artists

like
Destiny’s
Child
and
Bobby
Brown.
Stokes’
credentials
and
expertise
are
evident
in
the
dance

sequences,
as
he
endows
each
number
with
the
same
zeal
and
kineticism
that
make
his
music
videos

so
appealing.
While
his
training
and
background
are
manifest
in
the
exciting
and
effective
dance
set-‐
pieces,
Stokes’
inexperience
in
dramatic
film
work
and
extended
dialogue
scenes
is
uncomfortably

obvious,
compounded
by
the
casting
of
two
non-‐actors
as
the
leads.
Omarion
and
Marques
Houston

had
become
breakout
stars
in
the
R&B
groups
B2K
and
Immature,
respectively,
and
the
newly-‐
minted
director
had
previously
groomed
them
as
musical
protégés.
Just
as
Omarion
and
Houston
are

better
suited
to
the
demonstrative
performances
and
direct
address
of
a
music
video,
Stokes
is

equally
steeped
in
the
structure
of
the
three-‐minute
video
form,
and
he
struggles
to
parlay
that

aesthetic
into
a
sustained
ninety-‐minute
narrative.
However,
despite
or
likely
because
of
its
flaws,

You
Got
Served
actually
provides
one
of
the
best
templates
for
the
genre,
establishing
and
defining
the

competition
dance
trope.
Its
very
transparency
and
simplicity
make
Served
a
virtual
blueprint
for
the

Formula
Dance
Film’s
taxonomy.

You
Got
Served
follows
best
friends
David
and
Elgin
who
helm
the
reigning
dance
crew
in

their
L.A.
neighborhood.
Although
they
are
technically
good
boys
who
devote
themselves
to
dance

and
their
fraternal
alliance,
in
typical
‘hood
film
fashion
they
also
dabble
in
the
criminal
world.
In

order
to
earn
the
capital
to
enter
dance
competitions,
they
secretly
run
errands
for
a
resident
crime

boss
named
Emerald.
David
and
Elgin’s
seemingly
unshakeable
brotherhood
and
their
crew’s

unchallenged
success
are
simultaneously
threatened
when
a
white
crew
from
Orange
Country

invades
their
world
with
a
boasting
claim
to
the
title,
tempting
them
with
a
$5,000
purse.
The
crew

struggles
to
raise
enough
money
to
compete
with
their
affluent
rivals,
leading
Elgin
to
borrow
the

amount
from
his
grandmother.

However,
when
the
OC
boys
confront
Elgin
solo,
he
impulsively

agrees
to
battle
them
before
his
team
is
ready,
leading
to
a
humiliating
defeat
that
undermines
his

crew’s
confidence
and
fractures
team
solidarity.
They
suffer
not
only
collapse
in
the
ring
but
also

internal
dissent
and
defection
as
one
disgruntled
member
named
Sonny
leaves
and
joins
the
OC

320

team.
Worse
yet,
Sonny
betrays
his
former
teammates
by
pirating
their
moves
to
the
enemy.
In
order

to
heighten
the
stakes
and
add
an
element
of
mortal
peril,
Elgin
attempts
to
pay
back
his

grandmother’s
loan
by
accepting
another
job
from
Emerald.
The
specifics
of
the
job
are
left

intentionally
ambiguous,
but
it
most
likely
involves
drugs
or
weapons.
When
David
doesn’t
show
up

to
help,
Elgin
gets
abandoned
by
his
literal
partner
in
crime
and
the
heist
goes
terribly
awry,
leaving

Elgin
beaten,
robbed,
and
permanently
on
Emerald’s
hit
list.
Crippled
and
stuck
in
a
leg
cast,
Elgin

renounces
David
(“We
ain’t
bros
no
more,
we
ain’t
cool,
we
ain’t
nothing”)
and
in
a
film
predicated
on

the
bonds
of
brotherhood,
this
signals
a
devastating
rupture.
Their
rift
causes
a
divided
allegiance,

and
the
crew
disbands.

In
a
ragged
and
underdeveloped
sub-‐plot,
David
also
begins
courting
Elgin’s
virtuous
sister

Liyah,
worsening
the
feud
between
the
former
best
friends.
Liyah
is
essentially
reduced
to
a
plot

device
and
a
pawn
between
the
dueling
protagonists,
which
is
in
keeping
with
the
film’s
fraternal

emphasis
and
its
invocation
of
wartime
themes
that
reduces
women
to
the
spoils
of
battle.
Like
all

Formula
Dance
Films
to
follow,
You
Got
Served
augments
the
requisite
romance
story
by
attempting

to
address
a
social
problem
element
in
its
tertiary
plotline.
This
social
commentary
thread
involves

the
mentorship
between
crewmember
Rico
and
a
ten-‐year-‐old
hellion
called
L’il
Saint,
who
teeters

precariously
close
to
the
consuming
gang
life
faced
by
all
cinematic
urban
youth.
Rico
(played
by
J-‐
Boog,
another
B2K
member)
has
made
it
his
personal
mission
to
protect
and
shepherd
L’il
Saint,
who

has
equal
aspirations
to
be
a
dancer
or
a
thug.
The
boy
haunts
their
rehearsal
space
like
a
mascot
and

simultaneously
drives
around
with
gangstas,
and
as
Rico
admonishes
him,
“Them
dudes
you
run
wit

ain’t
safe.”
Predictably,
tragedy
occurs
when
the
boy
gets
murdered
in
a
drive-‐by
shooting,
lending
a

dark
element
of
realism
to
an
otherwise
up-‐beat
story.
All
the
divergent
threads
culminate
in
the

final
showdown
at
the
Big
Bounce
dance
competition,
where
the
friends
reconcile,
the
crew

reassembles,
and
the
power
of
youth,
unity,
and
dance
overcomes
and
resolves
every
problem.

On
the
Floor:
Dance
Sequences

The
film’s
organizing
principle
is
structured
as
a
series
of
dance
battles
strung
together
by
a

basic
narrative
and
interspersed
with
numerous
montages,
ranging
from
dance
rehearsals
to
the

underwritten
love
story.
A
film
with
more
classically
controlled
pacing
would
be
structured
by
acts,

but
You
Got
Served
is
more
profitably
divided
and
examined
by
its
dance
battles.
To
that
end,
Served

is
exemplary
in
terms
of
genre
formation
and
the
subcategory
of
the
competition
dance
film,
and
its

opening
sequence
establishes
all
the
recurrent
techniques
that
will
emerge
in
the
cycle’s
identical

films.
Served
and
its
kind
all
typically
begin
with
a
five-‐minute
sequence
of
competition
footage
that

321

revels
in
the
spectacle
of
pure
dance.
Almost
indistinguishable
from
a
music
video,
these
sequences

are
totally
non-‐dialogue
except
for
the
riotous
reactions
of
a
diegetic
audience.
The
teeming
crowd
is

composed
of
spectators,
judges,
and
competitors
who
alternately
goad,
cheer,
and
generally
create
a

cacophony
that
offsets
the
focused
precision
on
the
dance
floor.
This
recurrent
opening
montage
has

some
narrative
rationale
in
that
it
is
derived
from
the
real
practice
of
“street
style”
rules
that
give
two

competing
teams
five
minutes
each
to
battle
in
the
center
ring.
It
also
conveniently
serves
as
the

point
of
entry,
instantly
immersing
the
audience
in
an
onslaught
of
visceral
and
increasingly
showy

spectacle,
each
moment
intended
to
supersede
the
last.

During
this
pre-‐credits
dance
prologue,
the
crew
gets
introduced
in
their
environment
in
the

midst
of
an
intense
battle
with
the
competing
team.
At
this
point,
there
are
no
readily
identifiable

protagonists
and
there
are
no
stars:
the
cast
members
are
identified
first
and
foremost
as
dancers

and
part
of
a
cohesive
troupe,
rather
than
as
individuals.
As
Timbaland’s
song
“Drop”
blares,
both

crews
circle
up
with
linked
arms
as
they
summon
energy
like
a
prayer
circle,
pulsating
with
a

building
aggression
and
exuberance
in
their
respective
corners.

The
battle
is
like
a
call-‐and-‐
response,
as
each
crew
accosts
the
other
while
upping
the
ante
each
time;
sometimes
the
entire

troupe
dances,
or
they
fragment
into
solos,
trios,
quartets,
etc.
It
becomes
quickly
apparent
that
there

is
no
hierarchy
or
star
system
here,
in
contrast
to
the
hallowed
traditions
of
classical
dance
forms

where
companies
and
choreography
are
rigidly
divided
into
the
corps,
principals,
and
soloists.
A

prima
ballerina
is
unmistakably
the
star,
while
the
rest
of
a
corps
de
ballet
quite
literally
stands
in
the

background
as
she
performs,
whereas
in
a
street
crew,
individuals
share
equal
import,
divided
only

by
their
specialties.

In
a
series
of
gravity
defying
stunts,
various
crewmembers
demonstrate
their
tricks,
including

robotic
isolations,
gymnastic
feats,
and
classic
break-‐dancing
moves.
Every
individual
has
a

particular
talent
that
gets
showcased
before
returning
to
the
group
and
dancing
as
a
unit.
In
addition

to
the
virtuoso
stunts
and
tricks,
part
of
the
battle
stems
from
taunting,
mimicry,
and
insults,
which
is

rooted
in
the
original
street
practice,
as
Joseph
G.
Schloss
documents
in
Foundation,
his
ethnographic

study
on
hip-‐hop
culture:

The
b-‐boy
attitude
can
manifest
itself
in
other
ways
besides
generalized
aggressiveness.
The

most
common
of
these
is
verbal
abuse.
B-‐boys
are
quick
to
categorize
the
denigration
of

their
opponents
as
a
part
of
their
strategic
arsenal,
with
little
or
no
personal
significance.
B-‐
boy
Character
[a
dancer
interviewed
by
Schloss]
sees
a
two
fold
strategic
value
in
verbal

322

abuse,
in
that
it
directly
undercuts
the
opponent’s
confidence
with
pointed
insults
and

indirectly
saps
their
will
to
compete
by
turning
the
crowd
against
them.
52

Beyond
technical
skill,
a
key
component
of
the
battle
is
to
mock,
degrade,
and
humiliate
your

opponent
into
submission,
reinforcing
the
idea
of
martial
territoriality
that
undergirds
all
dance

battles,
making
them
akin
to
danced
gang
warfare.
The
same
hostility
and
virile
defense
of
one’s

honor
that
induce
gang
violence
are
present
but
redirected
in
non-‐lethal
(but
just
as
serious)
terms.

As
the
dancers
grimace,
scowl,
and
scoff,
their
aggressive
bodily
reactions
demarcate
the
battle
as
a

true
fight,
not
the
distanced
aestheticized
stage
performance
typical
of
concert
dance.
There
is
a

scatological
crassness
in
all
the
battles
that
would
be
unthinkable
in
any
other
dance
style,
and
such

insults
often
take
the
form
of
offensive
pantomime
i.e.
one
dancer
will
get
on
all
fours
and
mimic
a

dog
urinating
on
his
opponents
to
mark
his
territory
and
thus
claim
the
dance
floor
as
his
team’s

conquest.
Even
more
extreme,
one
male
dancer
approaches
the
female
dancers
of
the
opposing
crew

and
makes
a
hand
gesture
to
mimic
“fingering”
them—then
in
perfectly
syncopated
rhythm,
he

pretends
to
smell
his
finger
and
faint
from
the
odor,
and
the
rest
of
his
crew
follows
suit
and
feigns

disgust.
In
this
instance,
the
crews
augment
the
actual
choreography
by
making
symbolic
sexist

attacks
on
their
opponents,
adding
to
the
embarrassment
of
defeat.

At
the
five-‐minute
mark
of
You
Got
Served,
there
is
still
no
clear
protagonist
and
the
dancers

(some
of
whom
will
never
appear
again)
all
have
equal
screen
time.
After
this
entire
sequence,
the

film
title
and
director’s
name
finally
streak
across
the
screen,
suspended
over
the
arena:
“Written

and
Directed
by
Chris
Stokes.”
Importantly,
it
is
only
after
the
battle
that
Stokes
announces
his
stamp

as
filmmaker,
as
if
to
pay
deference
to
the
temporality
and
protocol
of
a
dance
battle.
In
the
world
of

street
dance,
those
five
minutes
are
all
that
matter,
so
they
accordingly
have
narrative
primacy
in
the

film’s
introduction.
Because
the
opening
battle
is
shot
in
real
time,
it
takes
a
full
five
minutes
to
meet

the
first
actual
character
in
the
form
of
emcee
and
neighborhood
patriarch
Mr.
Rad,
played
by
Steve

Harvey.
As
the
presiding
authority
in
this
subaltern
world,
Mr.
Rad
represents
the
thematic

mouthpiece,
and
throughout
the
film
he
will
deliver
the
most
heavy-‐handed,
but
also
the
most

fundamental
lines
regarding
the
importance
of
friendship,
loyalty,
and
respect.
Trading
on
his
extra-‐
textual
persona
as
an
old-‐school,
straight
shooter
(The
Steve
Harvey
Show,
Kings
of
Comedy,
etc.),

Harvey
lends
a
certain
maturity
to
the
film,
and
he
serves
as
a
one-‐man
Greek
chorus
who
advises,

52

Joseph
Glenn
Schloss,
Foundation:
B-boys,
B-girls,
and
Hip-hop
Culture
in
New
York
(New

York:
Oxford
University
Press,
2009),
111.

323

upbraids,
and
occasionally
laments
the
vagaries
of
a
younger
generation.
When
a
losing
crew
bitterly

grumbles,
he
quickly
imposes
adult
control:

Whoa,
whoa,
now
young-‐blood,
don’t
come
up
in
here
with
all
that
disrespect.
That
ain’t

how
it
work
around
here.
You
heard
the
people,
ya
lost.
You
don’t
like
the
result?
You
take

yourself,
you
take
your
little
crew,
and
you
get
to
practicing.
You
bring
it
back
here
and
we

settle
it
on
the
floor
like
men.
I
don’t
want
no
trouble
up
in
here.

Mr.
Rad
is
notably
the
only
adult
in
the
scene,
which
makes
him
both
an
authority
figure
and
an

anomaly.
Despite
his
closeness
to
the
boys,
he
maintains
an
outsider’s
role
as
observer,
and
although

he
is
clearly
well-‐versed
in
the
codes
of
hip-‐hop
dance,
his
age
makes
it
physically
impossible
for
him

to
be
a
participant.
Battling
and
b-‐boying
is
simply
a
young
man’s
game,
which
contributes
to
the

generational
schism
presented
throughout
You
Got
Served. Black
vernacular
dance
may
once
have

been
a
communal
multigenerational
activity,
an
outlet
for
repression,
and
even
a
covert
satire
of
the

dominant
culture,
but
the
stunt-‐like
routines
and
overt
sexuality
of
contemporary
hip-‐hop
has
fixed
it

firmly
as
a
youth
practice:

Hip-‐hop
dance
reflects
an
alienation
not
only
of
young
African
American
males
from

mainstream
society
and
of
African
American
males
from
females
but
also
of
one
African

American
generation
from
another.
Despite
the
many
continuities
and
similarities
to
earlier

dances,
hip-‐hop
represents
a
clear
demarcation
between
generations
in
ways
previously

unknown
in
African
American
dance
culture.
Because
of
its
athletic
nature,
its
performance

in
popular
arenas
is
largely
confined
to
those
under
about
twenty-‐five
years
of
age.
This

might
reflect
the
commodity
market’s
emphasis
on
youth;
it
certainly
coincides
with
current

marketing
strategies
that
appeal
to
the
“cult
of
youth,”
strategies
that
do
no
exclude
African

American
cultural
commodities.
53

In
addition
to
the
age
bias,
this
opening
scene
accurately
reflects
the
democratic
aspect
of
street

battles,
where
the
winner
is
determined
by
the
fans
and
the
relative
noise
level
of
their
cheers.
It
is
a

participatory
affair
with
a
populist
bent,
since
the
spectators
have
the
final
decision-‐making
power.

In
this
cramped
and
chaotic
setting,
the
crowd
surges
right
next
to
the
action
on
the
dance
floor,
as

opposed
to
the
spatial
detachment
and
behavioral
mores
of
theatrical
concert
dance.
In
a
theater,
the

audience
is
separated
from
the
stage
by
footlights
and
perhaps
even
an
orchestra
pit,
and
the
line

between
performer
and
audience
is
clearly
demarcated.
Similarly,
theater
patrons
are
expected
to
be

generally
silent,
applauding
only
at
appropriate
sections-‐-‐
even
clapping
during
the
pause
between

musical
movements
is
considered
gauche.
This
classical
tradition
exists
in
complete
opposition
to

53

Hazzard-‐Donald,
“Dance
in
Hip-‐Hop
Culture,”
512.

324

street
battles,
where
the
voluble
crowd
encircles
the
dancers,
mere
inches
away
and
completely

involved.

As
in
all
Formula
Dance
Films
that
open
with
a
rousing
performance,
You
Got
Served
must

creakily
settle
into
exposition
and
dialogue
scenes
to
activate
its
simplistic
narrative.
This
shift
is

akin
to
the
transitional
moment
of
a
classical
musical
where
characters
suddenly
move
from
talking

to
singing,
walking
to
dancing,
and
then
back
as
if
nothing
remarkable
has
happened.
Within
the

official
and
codified
musical
genre,
the
filmic
universe
can
withstand
such
breaches
of
realism.

However,
in
both
classical
musicals
and
contemporary
Formula
Dance
Films,
these
moments
of

changing
modalities
can
vary
in
finesse
and
believability
depending
on
the
craft
of
the
filmmakers,
in

tandem
with
the
audience’s
willing
suspension
of
disbelief.
The
result
can
be
abrupt
and
jarring
or

mellifluous
and
enchanting.
In
the
case
of
You
Got
Served,
there
is
a
marked
awkwardness
as
Stokes

inexpertly
shifts
to
the
story,
especially
after
the
visual
mastery
of
the
opening
dance
sequence.
The

first
scene
of
the
film
proper
contains
“the
stakes”
dialogue
between
David
and
Elgin,
and
we
learn

that
they
are
life-‐long
best
friends
who
have
been
moonlighting
as
small
time
crooks
for
the

neighborhood
criminal
kingpin.
They
both
agree
that
they
must
extricate
themselves
from
their

lucrative
but
risky
side
job,
and
while
this
exchange
is
exceedingly
literal
with
no
subtext
or
subtlety,

that
is
a
structural
necessity
in
the
genre;
it
strains
credibility
and
reads
like
a
rough
first
draft,
but
it

is
crucial
for
the
Formula
Dance
screenplay
to
efficiently
lay
out
the
goals,
the
stakes,
and
the
specter

of
illicit
activity
that
will
eventually
drive
the
melodrama.

In
keeping
with
the
film’s
structuring
principal
that
organizes
time
and
narrative
progression

through
dance
scenes,
the
next
dance
sequence
kicks
off
the
nominal
second
act
as
the
crew

vanquishes
opposing
teams.
In
this
second
set-‐piece,
again
staged
at
Mr.
Rad’s
underground

warehouse,
David
and
Elgin
challenge
varying
crews
in
their
efforts
raise
money
to
match
the
$5,000

purse
offered
by
their
OC
challengers.
While
their
effort
is
motivated
by
narrative
logic,
it
is
also
an

excuse
to
show
more
full-‐scale
dance
battles,
resulting
in
MTV-‐inspired
flair
that
puts
the
cast
and

crew
in
their
comfort
zone
and
shows
them
to
their
best
advantage.
Stokes’
script
and
camerawork

favor
extended
musical
montages,
both
for
dance-‐related
story
points
and
more
pedestrian
concerns

like
the
burgeoning
but
anemic
romance
between
David
and
Liyah.
Consequently,
the
film
is
like
a

series
of
music
videos
linked
by
perfunctory
interstitial
dialogue
scenes,
and
most
of
its
run-‐time
is

scored
to
contemporary
hip-‐hop
and
R&B
songs,
both
diegetic
and
non-‐diegetic.
Within
the
rubric
of

traditional
film
criticism,
this
overreliance
on
montage
would
be
derided
as
weak
screenwriting

without
sufficient
character
development
or
meaningful
dialogue,
but
Stokes’
preference
for
musical

325

and
visual
storytelling
actually
captures
the
very
essence
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film.
Music
and

montage
is
the
lifeblood
of
a
dance
film,
and
rather
than
a
digression
or
obfuscation,
the
musical

montages
are
usually
a
welcome
reprieve
from
the
typically
unconvincing
acting.
The
dancing
is
real

and
has
the
vibrancy
of
an
authentic
performance,
whereas
the
dialogue
simply
gets
in
the
way.
In

any
other
genre
film,
this
reliance
on
musical
montage
would
be
tedious,
but
here
the
kinetic

montage
is
perfectly
apposite
and
far
more
effective
than
traditional
linear
storytelling.

The
third
battle
represents
a
reversal
of
fortune
and
the
peripeteia,
as
the
once
indomitable

team
begins
to
lose
its
stronghold
and
experiences
its
first
crushing
defeat.
The
scene
opens
in
the

now
familiar
basement
arena,
and
in
stark
contrast
to
the
playful
self-‐assurance
and
optimism
of
the

opening
battle,
the
atmosphere
is
now
tense
and
foreboding.
Given
its
emphasis
on
brotherhood
and

homosocial
bonds,
You
Got
Served
has
a
strong
parallel
to
the
war
genre
and
frequently
borrows
from

its
conventions,
albeit
scaled
down
to
fit
the
more
intimate
story.
Mr.
Rad
reiterates
this
theme
by

reminding
the
crews
about
moral
obligations
and
honor:

Now
we
gonna
keep
this
whole
thing
nice,
fair,
and
square.
This
is
a
lot
of
money
we’re

talking
about,
but
money
ain’t
the
most
important
thing.
Friendship
is
the
most
important

thing.
So
no
matter
what
happens—win,
lose,
or
draw—we
gonna
be
friends
after
this.

There
will
be
no
fighting.

This
third
battle
also
supports
the
introduction
of
new
plot
device
in
the
form
of
Mr.
Chuck,
an

imposing
black
man
whom
Mr.
Rad
refers
to
as
an
off-‐duty
LAPD
office
armed
with
a
gun.
This

seemingly
random
character
serves
to
emphasize
the
ever-‐present
potential
of
violence,
and
the

need
to
suppress
it
through
brute
force
and
intimidation.
There
is
something
both
reassuring
and
yet

also
disturbing
about
the
stoic
Mr.
Chuck
and
what
his
presence
signifies:
he
is
technically
off
the

clock
and
yet
he
carries
a
fire
arm
among
a
group
of
dancing
teenagers,
suggesting
that
in
the
‘hoods

of
L.A.
there
is
a
fine,
permeable
line
between
legality
and
criminality,
and
that
this
uneasy
balance

must
be
maintained
through
authoritarianism.
The
kids
may
have
temporarily
rejected
gang
life
for

dance,
but
the
film
maintains
the
belief
that
there
is
always
violence
brewing
below
the
surface
and

ready
to
combust.
Mr.
Chuck’s
presence
and
its
threat
of
punitive
brutality
allude
to
this
hazardous

balance.

Tension
mounts
before
the
battle,
with
gradually
in-‐laid
presentiments
of
doom.
The
team

realizes
that
Sonny
is
missing,
only
to
see
him
reappear
with
the
OC
crew
after
having
secretly

enlisted
with
the
enemy.
Compounding
the
unease
created
by
Sonny’s
dissension,
the
crew
loses
to

the
OC
dancers
who
have
stolen
their
moves.
This
is
depicted
as
the
most
grievous
moral

transgression
in
the
entire
film.
In
a
world
driven
by
the
unspoken
codes
of
honor
and
fraternity,

326

theft
is
the
most
venal
sin
in
the
dance-‐battle
subculture.
Various
members
cry
out,
“Hey,
that’s
my

move!”
or
“That’s
your
move
right
there!”—a
variant
on
this
line
is
repeated
at
least
ten
times
to

reinforce
the
point,
and
if
it
was
still
unclear,
David
exclaims,
“Sonny
sold
us
out!”
Beyond
the

audacity
of
the
theft
itself,
this
betrayal
also
leaves
the
crew
defeated
and
depleted.
Their
winning

moves
have
already
been
performed
and
they
cannot
repeat
them,
since
innovation
and
originality

are
part
of
the
competition.
They
are
completely
handicapped
and
have
no
recourse,
and
the

frustration
and
injustice
of
the
situation
leads
to
a
violent
brawl.
This
is
exactly
the
aggressive

outcome
Mr.
Rad
foretold
and
as
he
yells,
“No
fighting!,”

Mr.
Chuck
intercedes
with
silent
but

implacable
authority.
Once
separated,
the
warring
crews
glare
at
each
other
and
David
shouts,
“Y’all

cheated,
y'all
stole
our
moves!”
Wade,
the
cocky
OC
captain
replies,
“You
just
mad
‘cause
tonight,
you

suckas
got
served.”
This
line
has
since
become
the
fodder
for
merciless
parody,
but
actor
Christopher

Jones
delivers
the
crucial
title
line
with
such
solemnity
that
we
accept
it
in
melodramatic
context.

This
intense
scene
is
then
quickly
bookended
by
the
fourth
dance
battle,
which
corresponds
to
the

crew’s
all-‐time
lowest
point:
without
any
semblance
of
unity,
the
team
is
divided,
Elgin
is
injured,
and

David
has
been
unilaterally
rejected
by
his
disillusioned
brothers.
Cementing
their
territorial

invasion,
the
OC
crew
continues
to
triumph
as
a
sidelined
Elgin
watches,
impotent
and
helpless.
The

fallen
heroes
are
in
disarray,
and
the
white
boys
have
taken
over
and
supplanted
the
formerly

formidable
crew.

The
last
dance
sequence
in
You
Got
Served
is
the
all-‐or-‐nothing
final
battle,
a
classic

construction
for
the
Formula
Dance
Film
in
general
and
the
competition
film
specifically.
These

fictional
competitions
are
always
introduced
with
dazzle
and
fanfare,
but
You
Got
Served
enjoys
an

added
authenticity
and
immediacy
by
casting
real
life
hip-‐hop
celebrities
to
achieve
a
contemporary

excitement.
For
example,
famed
MTV
video
jockey
Lala
Velasquez
plays
herself
as
she
covers
the

convention
and
serves
as
a
legitimate
pop
culture
figure
who
lends
credence
to
the
fictional
“Big

Bounce.”
She
also
conveniently
dispenses
key
information
via
her
reportage
by
setting
the
scene,

relaying
the
rules,
and
reiterating
the
stakes
and
rewards:

This
is
not
a
joke.
It
is
day
two-‐-‐the
finals
of
the
Big
Bounce
competition.
Five
of
the
dopest

crews
are
left
and
only
one
crew
is
going
home
$50,000
richer,
and
only
one
crew
will
get
to

appear
in
L’il
Kim’s
new
video.

Choreographer
Wade
Robson,
another
luminary
from
the
hip-‐hop
world,
also
makes
a
cameo
as
a

guest
announcer.
Celebrated
for
his
work
with
artists
like
Britney
Spears,
‘N
Sync,
and
Usher,
Robson

brings
additional
legitimacy
to
the
show
and
a
certain
insider
glamour.
Topping
the
surprise
cameos,

hip-‐hop
icon
L’il
Kim
plays
herself
as
a
guest
judge.
Diminutive
and
improbably
curvaceous,
L’il
Kim

327

is
costumed
in
towering
stilettos,
track
pants,
and
a
black
bikini
top,
cementing
her
image
as
a

ghetto-‐fabulous
hip-‐hop
queen.
Known
for
her
relationship
with
slain
rapper
Biggie
Smalls
and
her

notorious
hypersexual
persona,
L’il
Kim
is
a
certifiable
member
of
the
hip-‐hop
pantheon,
and

arguably
the
biggest
name
in
the
film.

The
intended
audience
would
be
familiar
with
her
not
only
as

a
provocative
recording
artist,
but
also
for
her
extra-‐textual
persona.
Kimberly
Denise
Jones
actually

hustled
the
Brooklyn
streets
as
a
homeless
teenager
before
aligning
with
Smalls,
and
despite
her

economic
success
in
the
music
industry,
she
insistently
maintains
her
connection
to
street
credibility.

With
her
combination
of
explicit
rap
lyrics
and
her
garish
self-‐presentation,
L’il
Kim
has
since

become
the
avatar
of
an
old
school
street
style
and
extreme
sexual
liberation.
Her
public
persona

would
suggest
that
she
is
in
fact,
a
strongly
independent
female
artist
who
is
free
from
the

restrictions
of
mainstream
assimilation
and
corporate
homogenization.
However,
in
a
feminist

deconstruction
of
Li’l
Kim’s
videos
and
augmented
physicality,
Nicole
Fleetwood
detects
a

countervailing
capitalist
imperative
that
may
actually
shackle
the
outlandish
performer:

While
performing
inside
the
world
of
her
own
making,
one
in
which
she
is
infinitely

reproducible,
and
in
which
she
marks
the
beginning
and
end
of
sexual
desire
and
pleasure,

there
are
no
restrictions
on
her
performative
excesses
and
the
power
she
derives
from

sexual
enactment
as
commodity
form.
Yet,
in
the
realms
of
black
popular
culture,
limits
are

placed
on
L’il
Kim’s
excess
flesh
performances…In
so
doing,
L’il
Kim’s
enactment
of
excess

flesh
has
transformed
into
an
entirely
different
performance
of
difference.
It
is
a

performance
that
destabilizes
the
being
of
excess
flesh
and
corporeal
attachment
to
one

that
turns
race
and
gender
into
plasticity,
highly
manufactured
and
purchasable
goods.
54

As
an
ostensible
representative
of
authenticity
and
street
style,
L’il
Kim
serves
a
dual-‐edged
role
in

You
Got
Served
that
speaks
to
the
genre’s
ongoing
tension
between
the
“real”
and
the
commercial.

Like
L’il
Kim
herself,
the
Big
Bounce
competition
tries
to
ally
the
grassroots
rhetoric
of
amateur

street
dancers
with
the
commodified
arena
of
professional
dance
and
financial
compensation.

Although
her
cameo
is
simply
meant
to
entertain,
L’il
Kim’s
presence
in
this
film
contributes
to
the

overall
dilemma
of
trying
to
reconcile
the
concept
of
authenticity
in
a
decidedly
commercial
market,
a

paradox
that
will
permeate
every
Formula
Dance
Film
to
come.

This
final
showdown
also
represents
a
major
shift
in
spatiality,
in
a
move
from
the
dark,

crowded
warehouses
of
the
amateur
battles
to
the
well-‐lit,
sleek
interior
of
the
Los
Angeles

Convention
Center
in
a
newly
professional
context.
The
slick
obsidian
dance
floor,
soaring
glass
brick

54

Nicole
R.
Fleetwood,
Troubling
Vision:
Performance,
Visuality,
and
Blackness

(Chicago:

University
of
Chicago
Press,
2010),
142-‐144.

328

walls,
and
arching
steel
scaffolding
all
have
the
futurist
chic
of
any
music
video
set,
with
a
gleaming

white
and
silver
palette
and
lithe
young
bodies
in
constant
motion.
Stokes
is
once
again
in
his

comfort
zone
with
this
setting,
which
is
reminiscent
of
his
own
music
videos,
and
it
provides
the

backdrop
for
entirely
danced
sequences
performed
by
real
dance
crews,
unhampered
by
dialogue
or

narrative
concerns.

In
accordance
with
the
MTV-‐like
set,
the
dancers
are
uniformly
costumed
in

urban
street
gear
like
the
backup
dancers
in
a
hip-‐hop
video.
These
identical
outfits
have
the

practical
function
of
differentiating
each
crew
for
the
viewer,
with
an
additional
thematic
purpose
of

emphasizing
the
battle
element.
The
visual
design
of
any
final
dance
battle
borrows
from
the

iconography
of
a
war
film,
with
easily
identifiable
sides
that
are
denoted
by
color
and
costume.
In
this

case,
David’s
crew
is
dressed
in
blue
and
they
are
rechristened
the
“L’il
Saints”
in
honor
of
their
slain

mascot.
Their
associative
color
(blue
represents
loyalty,
optimism
etc.)
and
their
name
(a
loving

tribute
to
a
fallen
brother)
code
their
crew
as
the
heroic
good
guys.
Conversely,
the
OC
crew
looks

appropriately
malevolent
in
all
black,
and
they
are
clearly
the
villains.

In
terms
of
story
structure,
the
lingering
narrative
threads
have
become
extraneous
at
this

point
and
they
get
summarily
resolved
to
make
room
for
dancing
spectacle:
in
a
speedily
inserted

scene,
Mr.
Rad
comes
to
support
his
young
wards
in
his
capacity
as
community
pillar
and
guardian.

He
has
a
brief
exchange
with
Liyah,
assuring
her
that
he
has
eliminated
the
threat
of
Emerald’s

vengeance,
“Mr.
Rad
knows
everything
that
goes
down
in
Mr.
Rad's
neighborhood.”
Serving
as
a
hasty

deus
ex
machina,
we
learn
that
Mr.
Chuck
has
somehow
vanquished
Emerald,
justifying
the
LAPD

officer’s
seemingly
random
presence
in
the
previous
act.
We
are
reassured
that
(off-‐screen),
legality

has
been
reinstated
and
that
universal
justice
has
prevailed,
so
now
the
film’s
third
act
set-‐piece
is

purely
about
the
dance
competition
and
the
concomitant
reparation
of
friendship.
While
Emerald

represented
physical
danger,
the
broken
brotherhood
is
thematically
more
devastating
and

important,
but
even
this
narrative
conflict
must
be
quickly
resolved
before
the
dancing.
During
their

feud,
David
had
hurriedly
assembled
his
own
crew,
but
without
Elgin
and
their
camaraderie,
his
team

gets
eliminated
in
the
early
trials.
For
the
final
battle,
David
has
been
reduced
to
a
spectator,
but
he

apologizes,
makes
amends,
and
gets
admitted
back
into
the
fold.
However,
due
to
competition

regulations,
he
cannot
rejoin
the
crew,
since
all
entrants
must
maintain
the
same
number
and
roster

of
performers
throughout.

While
the
protagonists’
performance
is
central,
a
final
battle
sequence
is
typically
composed

of
multiple
segments
where
competing
crews
put
their
numbers
on
display.
In
You
Got
Served
and

every
subsequent
competition
film,
these
segments
use
real
dance
crews
to
showcase
the
best
and

329

most
innovative
choreography
in
the
industry.
With
non-‐stop
dancing,
the
lengthy
competition

montage
is
an
unabashed
narrative
breach
with
absolutely
no
linear
progression
in
the
story
line;
the

movie
simply
stops
at
a
standstill
for
the
dancing.
Like
the
specialty
acts
of
the
classical
and

postclassical
musical,
these
featured
dancers
are
imported
for
their
unique
talent
and
authenticity,

requiring
only
tenuous
story
integration.
The
nature
of
a
dance
competition
dictates
that
we
see

multiple
competitors,
which
justifies
their
sudden
appearance—these
dancers
have
not
existed
as

characters
in
the
story
before
this
moment,
but
dancing
takes
precedence
and
supersedes
narrative

logic.
For
example,
a
break-‐dance
specialist
named
Oscar
(Oscar
Orosco)
suddenly
enters
and
joins

the
L’il
Saints—he
had
been
briefly
referenced
but
was
not
an
actual
character
in
the
story,
and
in

this
moment
he
materializes
for
the
sole
purpose
of
adding
to
the
dancing
spectacle.
Within
the

framework
of
a
Formula
Dance
Film,
this
last-‐minute
introduction
of
featured
players
is
perfectly

acceptable
and
rousing,
providing
an
element
of
surprise
and
novelty.

The
performance
montage
culminates
with
the
L’il
Saints
vs.
the
OC
crew
in
a
bout
that

exceeds
all
others
in
terms
of
technique,
flash,
and
stylization.
The
warring
crews
are
well-‐matched,

and
Li’l
Kim
reluctantly
announces
a
tie.
This
causes
serious
upheaval
as
the
crowd
and
crews
rail

against
the
ruling.
Amidst
the
aghast
reaction
of
boos
and
yelling,
Mr.
Rad
intervenes
and
exhorts
the

judges
to
pick
a
winner
for
the
sake
of
the
kids
and
their
sense
of
worth.
As
patriarch
and

representative
of
the
older
generation,
Mr.
Rad
is
an
ideal
mouthpiece
for
expressing
the
plight
of

disillusioned
urban
youth,
who
have
already
suffered
from
restricted
access
and
limited
options:

Mr.
Rad:
Listen,
you
cannot
do
this
to
these
boys.
This
ain’t
just
a
prize
to
these
boys
out

here,
it’s
bigger
than
that.
This
is
Tyson
and
Holyfield
to
them.
You
gotta
pick
a
winner.

Trust
me
on
this.
You
have
got
to
let
these
boys
battle
it
out.
This
is
how
it
work:
This
is

crew
against
crew,
just
like
we
do
it
in
the
streets.

Kim:
Alright
everybody,
we
decided
to
take
it
to
the
streets!
These
two
crews
are
going
to

battle
it
out
for
you,
straight
street
style.
Listen,
y’all
tear
this
mother
up,
get
grimy
and

dirty.
Straight
street.

Elgin:
How
street
you
want
us
to
get?

Kim:
You
know
how
I
like
it
baby,
straight
hood.

Wade:
No
rules?

Kim:
Hell
no,
just
do
the
damn
thing.
No
rules.

By
referencing
her
allegiance
to
“the
streets,”
L’il
Kim
embraces
and
flaunts
her
well-‐publicized

gangsta
pedigree,
and
the
film
effectively
trades
on
her
‘hood
persona.
This
climactic
reassertion
of

street
supremacy
in
the
grand
finale
is
especially
effective
because
it
cements
the
film’s
bid
for

330

authenticity—the
universal
currency
of
the
urban
dance
film—and
it
cleverly
sidesteps
the
possible

hypocrisy
of
the
fact
that
they
are
all
participating
in
a
corporate-‐sponsored
event.
Ironically,
the
Big

Bounce
is
thoroughly
delimited
by
rules
and
regulations,
and
its
ultimate
purpose
is
to
service
the

equally
commercialized
world
of
music
videos
and
the
music
industry.
However,
L’il
Kim
becomes

the
advocate
and
scantily
clad
patron
of
street
style
and
“keepin’
it
real,”
even
in
this
sanitized
venue

with
its
corporate
sponsors.
In
accordance
with
the
tenets
of
street
style,
she
conveys
the
new
rules,

or
rather
lack
thereof:
each
crew
dances
for
five
minutes
and
the
audience
decides
the
winner.

Despite
the
polished
setting
and
mainstream
sanction
of
this
competition,
the
warehouse
mentality

has
now
supplanted
the
official
event,
as
inner
city
street
dancers
invade
the
business
district
of

downtown
L.A.
The
diurnal
has
been
overtaken
by
the
nocturnal,
and
youth
culture
has
overrun
the

adult
world.

With
the
new
“no
rules”
imprimatur,
David
can
now
rejoin
the
crew,
and
as
expected,
this

showdown
saves
the
best
for
last
with
a
virtual
onslaught
of
choreographic
tricks
and
heightened

formalism.
The
virtuosity
of
the
dancing
itself
is
matched
and
magnified
by
the
stylized
quality
of
the

cinematography,
editing,
and
composition.
In
one
instance,
all
the
dancers
launch
off
the
floor
during

a
tandem
jump,
and
the
camera
literally
shakes
with
the
impact
of
their
landing.
In
this
self-‐reflexive

moment,
the
very
apparatus
of
cinema
can
be
rattled
by
the
sheer
intensity
of
their
dancing,
serving

as
a
visual
analogue
to
their
gleefully
subversive
mission
to
shake
things
up
in
a
stiff
adult
world.

In

addition
to
the
hip-‐hop
and
break-‐dancing
staples
expected
of
a
dance
battle,
the
crew
also
performs

a
series
of
impressive
gymnastics
and
martial
arts
routines.
Any
of
these
stunts
would
be
easily

suited
to
a
Cirque
du
Soleil
performance
or
Olympic
gymnastic
competition,
where
such
moves
have

the
patina
of
official
endorsement
and
thus
more
widespread
respectability.
However
as
this

sequence
attests,
anyone
with
heart,
drive,
and
perseverance
can
be
an
artist,
thereby
demolishing

the
binary
concept
of
high
vs.
low
culture
and
formal
training
vs.
intuitive
street
style.
This
blurring

of
cultural
lines
and
fusion
of
styles
are
the
foundation
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film.
The
dancers’
skill

level
is
advanced
and
their
talent
is
unquestionable,
and
Stokes
successfully
achieves
a
sense
of

escalation
by
making
each
sequence
more
exciting
than
the
last.
The
final
showdown
is
so
compelling

that
narrative
resolution
seems
almost
an
afterthought,
but
the
L’il
Saints
do
win
and
the
film
ends
on

a
freeze
frame
of
their
celebratory
leap,
before
the
upbeat
sound
of
B2K’s
“Take
it
to
the
Floor”

ignites
the
end
credits.

While
there
are
five
battles
total
in
You
Got
Served,
there
are
only
two
rehearsal
scenes,
which

is
comparatively
scant
when
examined
alongside
other
Formula
Dance
Films
that
foreground
the

331

rehearsal
process.
Other
films
in
the
cycle
deal
with
thematic
issues
of
artistic
inspiration
and
the

struggles
and
obstacles
faced
during
the
choreographing
stage.
Here
however,
the
battles
are
the

central
focus,
and
while
the
crew
does
in
fact
practice
rigorously,
the
emphasis
on
improvisation
also

suggests
that
impromptu
invention
is
just
as
highly
prized
as
disciplined
rehearsal.

This
value

system
is
evident
in
the
dialogue
when
Wade
taunts
Elgin
for
requesting
a
week’s
preparation,

“These
kids
need
a
whole
week.
To
what?
Practice?
See
my
crew,
we
don’t
practice,
we
just
do
it.”
For

traditional
or
classical
dance
forms,
rehearsal
is
not
only
expected
but
crucial
to
attain
the
expected

perfection
and
unity
of
movement.
Here
however,
the
notion
of
needing
extra
rehearsal
time
gets

mocked,
placing
an
emphasis
on
raw
talent
and
the
almost
savant-‐like
nature
of
a
troupe
that
can

effortlessly
play
off
its
strengths
through
improvisation
and
intuition.
This
erroneous
depiction
of

hip-‐hop
dancers
as
untutored
prodigies
is
a
misleading
and
even
detrimental
fabrication.
It
not
only

creates
fallacies
about
the
dance
world,
but
it
also
unintentionally
propagates
the
more
insidious

assumptions
about
race
and
racialized
dancing
bodies,
as
blacks
dancers
(or
practitioners
of
so-‐
called
black
dance)
get
coded
as
“natural”
as
opposed
to
formally
trained,
“One
of
the
most
prevalent

and
pernicious
myths
attached
to
the
black
dancing
body
is
that
the
movement
is
not
learned
but

inborn.
This
misconception
is
assumed
as
fact
both
inside
and
beyond
the
dance
world…It
behooves

us
to
question
what
is
‘natural.’”
55

Rooted
in
the
powerful
ideologies
of
taste
culture
binaries

alongside
unquestioned
beliefs
about
black
performativity,
this
construction
will
recur
throughout

the
Formula
Dance
cycle,
even
when
the
black
dancing
bodies
themselves
have
been
replaced
by

white
dancers
who
have
appropriated
black
style
and
black
choreography.

Gender:
Women
on
the
Sidelines
and
New
Controlling
Images

Relying
heavily
on
the
genre
tropes
and
traits
of
the
war
film,
You
Got
Served
is
an

understandably
homosocial
film,
chronicling
the
brotherhood-‐-‐whether
revered
or
forsaken-‐-‐of

ambitious
and
fiercely
loyal
young
men.
Consequently,
women
get
shifted
to
the
margins
as
attractive

props,
diversions,
or
convenient
plot
devices.

Given
the
battleground
ethos,
women
become
the

putative
spoils
of
war—they
are
enticing
inducements
added
to
the
coveted
monetary
prize
and

territorial
bragging
rights
of
competition.
As
such,
the
female
characters
are
objectified,

underwritten,
and
rendered
in
broad
strokes.
The
only
exception
to
this
construction
is
in
the
actual

dance
crews
themselves,
which
display
a
surprising
level
of
gender
parity.
Both
in
the
underground

55

Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild,
The
Black
Dancing
Body:
A
Geography
From
Coon
To
Cool
(New

York:
Palgrave
Macmillan,
2002),
47.

332

battles
and
the
professionally
sleek
Big
Bounce,
there
is
an
equitable
mix
of
female
dancers,
but
it

should
be
noted
that
these
are
not
actual
characters
within
the
diegesis
of
You
Got
Served,
but
rather

a
mimetic
reflection
of
the
real
life
co-‐ed
dance
crews
that
were
cast
in
those
scenes.

In
the
first
scene
of
the
film,
two
hood-‐rat
girls
admire
the
crew’s
style
and
approach
them

after
the
battle.
They
initially
seem
like
groupies
but
quickly
assert
their
credentials
and
ask
to
join,

“Y’all
were
off
the
chain
tonight—ya’ll
really
hooked
it
up.
But
you
missin’
one
thing:
me
and
my
girl

Toya;
she’s
the
bomb.
We
wanna
get
down
wit
y’all.”
David
and
Elgin
may
be
completely
entrenched

in
their
boys
club,
but
they
are
no
misogynists,
and
as
born
showman
they
recognize
that
adding

females
would
only
bolster
their
performance
appeal.
However,
after
an
initial
glimmer
of
a

multicultural
urban
utopia
with
gender
equality,
the
film
soon
sheds
this
early
suggestion
of
coalition

and
settles
back
into
a
tale
of
assailed
masculinity.
These
two
eager
hood-‐rats
all
but
disappear
after

the
film’s
opening,
leaving
the
only
significant
female
characters
as
romantic
conquests
or
sassy

comic
relief.
Liyah
and
her
best
friend
Beautifull
(“With
two
‘L’s’”
as
she
likes
to
purr
from
heavily

glossed
lips)
represent
two
sides
of
a
stereotypic
coin
and
embody
the
postmodern
versions
of

longstanding
black
female
imagery.
As
Patricia
Hill
Collins
famously
categorized
in
Black
Feminist

Thought,
the
visual
and
literary
representation
of
black
females
can
be
delineated
into
a
remarkably

consistent
set
of
types
that
she
terms
“controlling
images”:

As
part
of
a
generalized
ideology
of
domination,
stereotypical
images
of
Black
womanhood

take
on
special
meaning.
Because
the
authority
to
define
societal
values
is
a
major

instrument
of
power,
elite
groups,
in
exercising
power,
manipulate
ideas
about
Black

womanhood.
They
do
so
by
exploiting
already
existing
symbols,
or
creating
new

ones…These
controlling
images
are
designed
to
make
racism,
sexism,
poverty,
and
other

forms
of
social
injustice
appear
to
be
natural,
normal,
and
inevitable
parts
of
daily
life.
56

These
images
have
persisted
and
evolved
in
various
incarnations
over
the
last
century,
making

topical
accommodations
in
accordance
with
shifting
politics
and
cultural
trends.
For
example
the

current
valorization
of
black
culture
may
be
nominally
better
than
the
wholesale
animosity
of
past

decades,
but
it
does
nothing
to
dismantle
the
mechanism
of
exoticization
that
allows
one
group
to
be

socially
and
economically
marginalized
while
their
culture
is
raided
and
commodified.
Consequently

certain
elements
of
Collins’
schemata
are
less
relevant
today,
e.g.
the
Welfare
Queen
was
more

germane
to
the
era
of
her
writing
when
Reaganomics
cemented
an
image
in
the
public
consciousness

of
a
complacent
parasitic
black
welfare
mother,
lazily
living
off
the
labor
of
white
Americans.
The

56

Patricia
Hill
Collins,
Black
Feminist
Thought:
Knowledge,
Consciousness,
and
the
Politics
of

Empowerment
(New
York:
Routledge,
2000),
69.

333

Mammy
likewise
may
not
be
a
domestic
reality
anymore,
but
her
familiar
rotund
physicality
and
her

role
as
the
no-‐nonsense,
wisdom-‐dispensing
desexualized
nurturer
is
still
extant:

Created
to
justify
the
economic
exploitation
of
house
slaves
and
sustained
to
explain
Black

women’s
long-‐standing
restriction
to
domestic
service,
the
mammy
image
represents
the

normative
yardstick
used
to
evaluate
all
Black
women’s
behavior.
By
loving,
nurturing,
and

caring
for
her
White
children
and
“family”
better
than
her
own,
the
mammy
symbolizes
the

dominant
group’s
perceptions
of
the
ideal
Black
female
relationship
to
elite
White
male

power.
Even
though
she
may
be
well
loved
and
may
wield
considerable
authority
in
her

White
“family,”
the
mammy
still
knows
her
“place”
as
obedient
servant.
57

Used
as
an
opposing
cautionary
tale,
the
Matriarch
resurfaces
as
the
stereotypical
loud-‐mouthed

black
woman,
brandishing
her
hand
in
people’s
faces
and
being
generally
disruptive
and

overwhelming:

While
the
mammy
typifies
the
Black
mother
figure
in
White
homes,
the
matriarch

symbolizes
the
mother
figure
in
Black
homes.
Just
as
the
mammy
represents
the
“good”

black
mother,
the
matriarch
symbolizes
the
“bad”
Black
mother…As
overly
aggressive,

unfeminine
women,
Black
matriarchs
allegedly
emasculated
their
lovers
and
husbands.

These
men,
understandably,
either
deserted
their
partners
or
refused
to
marry
the
mothers

of
their
children.
From
the
dominant
group’s
perspective,
the
matriarch
represented
a
failed

mammy,
a
negative
stigma
to
be
applied
to
African
American
women
who
dared
reject
the

image
of
submissive,
hardworking
servant…In
this
context,
the
image
of
the
Black
matriarch

serves
as
a
powerful
symbol
for
both
Black
and
White
women
of
what
can
go
wrong
if
White

patriarchal
power
is
challenged.
Aggressive,
assertive
women
are
penalized—they
are

abandoned
by
their
men,
end
up
impoverished,
and
are
stigmatized
as
being
unfeminine.

58

Although
Collins
originally
conceived
the
Matriarch
as
a
tough,
uncompromising
termagant,
the
new

evolution
typically
uses
her
as
comic
relief.
Similarly
the
sexually
rapacious
Jezebel
is
still
very
much

with
us,
reincarnated
as
video
vixens
and
hip-‐hop
hos,
twerking
and
booty
poppin’
in
music
videos

and
used
as
objectified
props
for
male
performers.

Collins
notes
the
historical
continuity
of
the

Jezebel
image,
with
its
antebellum
slavery
origins
right
through
to
its
present-‐day
version,
which
is

now
compounded
by
complicity
from
the
black
community
itself:

Because
efforts
to
control
Black
women’s
sexuality
lie
at
the
heart
of
Black
women’s

oppression,
historical
jezebels
and
contemporary
“hoochies"
represent
a
deviant
Black

female
sexuality…Jezebel’s
function
was
to
relegate
all
Black
women
to
the
category
of

sexually
aggressive
women,
thus
providing
a
powerful
rational
for
the
widespread
sexual

assaults
by
White
men
typically
reported
by
black
slave
women…Rooted
in
the
historical

legacy
of
jezebel,
the
contemporary
“hoochie”
seems
to
be
cut
from
an
entirely
different

57

Ibid.,72-‐73.

58

Ibid.,
75-‐77.

334

cloth.
For
one,
whereas
images
of
Black
women
as
sexually
aggressive
certainly
pervade

popular
culture
overall,
the
image
of
the
hoochie
seems
to
have
permeated
everyday
Black

culture
in
entirely
new
ways…The
issue
here
lies
in
the
African
American
acceptance
of

such
images.
African
American
men
and
women
alike
routinely
do
not
challenge
these
and

other
portrayals
of
Black
women
as
“hoochies”
within
Black
popular
culture.
59

In
You
Got
Served,
the
two
female
leads
have
meager
characterization
and
adhere
to
a

millennial
amalgam
of
controlling
images.

Liyah
is
a
light-‐skinned
anglicized
beauty
with
“good”
hair,

and
she
is
constructed
as
the
chaste
neighborhood
sweetheart.
Her
olive
skin
is
light
enough
to

suggest
mixed-‐race
heritage
and
she
is
considerably
fairer
than
her
on-‐screen
brother
Elgin,
which
is

a
common
Hollywood
casting
practice
for
black
women
in
film
and
a
reflection
of
entrenched
and

deleterious
beauty
standards
in
America.
Both
on
screen
and
off,
lighter
skin
has
always
been
highly

prized
in
the
African
American
community
as
part
of
an
ingrained
belief
about
the
superiority
of

Anglo
features,
alongside
externally
imposed
standards
from
the
beauty
industry
that
propagate

images
of
attractiveness
being
synonymous
with
whiteness:

Dealing
with
prevailing
standards
of
beauty—particularly
skin
color,
facial
features,
and

hair
texture—is
one
specific
example
of
how
controlling
images
derogate
African
American

women…Judging
White
women
by
their
physical
appearance
and
attractiveness
to
men

objectifies
them.
But
their
White
skin
and
straight
hair
simultaneously
privilege
them
in
a

system
that
elevates
whiteness
over
blackness.
In
contrast,
African-‐American
women

experience
the
pain
of
never
being
able
to
live
up
to
prevailing
standards
of
beauty—
standards
used
by
White
men,
White
women,
Black
men,
and,
most
painfully,
one
another.

Regardless
of
any
individual
woman’s
subjective
reality,
this
is
the
system
of
ideas
that
she

encounters.
Because
controlling
images
are
hegemonic
and
taken
for
granted,
they
become

virtually
impossible
to
escape.
60

Accordingly,
in
both
appearance
and
behavior,
actress
Jennifer
Freeman
cleaves
to
the
expected

norms
of
a
black
ingénue
in
her
role
as
Liyah.
The
character’s
academic
aspirations
(a
nursing

student
accepted
to
Princeton)
and
naïve
demeanor
all
code
her
as
the
virginal
good
girl
and
a

worthy
conquest,
but
she
is
little
more
than
an
object
of
desire
and
a
plot
device
to
further
the
rift

between
sparring
best
friends.
Additionally,
Liyah’s
supposed
innocence
gets
complicated
by
some

questionably
revealing
and
provocative
costumes:
throughout
the
entire
film,
she
is
incongruously

clad
in
tight,
low-‐rise
pants
and
a
battery
of
bare
midriff
tube
tops.
These
outfits
undermine
her

chaste,
nurturing
characterization,
but
they
would
be
perfectly
acceptable
in
the
hip-‐hop
world

where
exposed
female
flesh
is
de
rigueur,
once
again
revealing
Stokes’
music
video
background
and

59

Ibid.,
81-‐82.

60

Ibid.,
89-‐90.

335

the
impetus
of
making
girls
look
sexy
as
opposed
to
realistic.
In
fact,
Liyah’s
costumes
look
like
they

were
borrowed
directly
from
the
backup
dancers
of
B2K’s
chart-‐topping
video
“Bump
Bump
Bump,”

which
Stokes
directed
in
2002.
Further
solidifying
the
music
industry
link
to
You
Got
Served,
Freeman

also
plays
the
eponymous
heroine
in
the
music
video
for
the
song
“Girlfriend,”
B2K’s
second
hit
single

and
another
Stokes
project
(2003).

Having
initially
cast
and
directed
Freeman
as
a
video
vixen,
it

may
have
been
difficult
for
Stokes
to
conceive
of
the
onscreen
female
in
any
other
way
besides
the

glorified
eye
candy
that
is
so
common
in
the
music
video
world.

Liyah’s
best
friend
and
behavioral
counterpart
Beautifull
is
also
dutifully
contained
within

the
controlling
image
framework.
As
an
updated
mix
of
the
Jezebel
and
the
Matriarch,
she
is
what
I

term
“the
neck-‐roller,”
a
streetwise
sassy
black
girl
with
a
studied
repertoire
of
exaggerated
gestures.

It
is
a
familiar
and
much-‐parodied
caricature
that
has
become
synonymous
with
the
contemporary

“ghetto”
black
girl.
From
sketch
comedy,
to
reality
TV,
to
feature
films,
the
neck-‐roller
stereotype
is

depicted
across
all
media
formats,
and
the
controlling
image
is
meant
to
convey
a
strident

assertiveness
and
confidence.
In
Black
Sexual
Politics,
her
follow-‐up
to
the
seminal
Black
Feminist

Thought,
Collins
revises
and
updates
the
controlling
images
she
introduced
in
her
first
book,
and
she

calls
this
character
type
the
Bitch,
“The
controlling
image
of
the
“bitch”
constitutes
one

representation
that
depicts
Black
women
as
aggressive,
loud,
rude,
and
pushy…The
term
bitch
is

designed
to
put
women
in
their
place…Representations
of
Black
women
as
bitches
abound
in

contemporary
popular
culture,
and
presenting
Black
women
as
bitches
is
designed
to
defeminize
and

demonize
them.”
61

While
Collins
is
certainly
correct
in
highlighting
this
character
type’s
boisterous

aggression,
I
believe
the
term
“bitch”
fails
to
capture
the
gestural
and
performative
element
of
this

controlling
image;
additionally
she
claims
that
this
character
is
de-‐feminized,
whereas
I
would
argue

that
these
neck-‐rollers
can
in
fact
be
hyper-‐feminine
and
attractive,
despite
their
brassy
affect,
often

using
their
own
awareness
of
and
confidence
in
their
looks
to
justify
their
outrageous
behavior.
As
a

classic
neck-‐roller,
Beautifull
is
absurdly
overconfident,
forthright,
and
besotted
by
her
own

perceived
desirability,
“And
the
moment
you
all
have
been
waiting
for:
Beautifull
has
arrived!”
She

inhabits
a
monomaniacal
reality
where
every
man
wants
and
every
woman
wants
to
be
her,
and
the

power
of
her
confidence
is
infectious.
The
part
is
written
as
a
gross
stereotype,
but
Meagan
Good