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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

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Content

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

61

Patricia
Hill
Collins,
Black
Sexual
Politics:
African
Americans,
Gender,
and
the
New
Racism

(New
York:
Routledge,
2004),
123.

336

humanizes
the
character
with
a
winning
charm
as
she
deftly
delivers
one-‐liners.
Incidentally,
Good

will
later
move
from
side
character
to
central
role
in
Stomp
the
Yard
(2007),
a
subsequent
Formula

Dance
Film
discussed
in
the
next
chapter.

Rounding
out
the
collection
of
revisited
stock
figures,
Elgin’s
portly
grandmother
represents

both
the
Mammy
and
Matriarch.
Her
dialogue
alternately
evokes
a
servile
Aunt
Jemima
and
a

chastising
Hattie
McDaniel.
When
her
grandson
asks
after
her
health,
she
replies
in
the
long-‐suffering

but
hearty
language
of
the
Mammy:

Oh,
well,
I
got
arthritis
in
my
leg,
threw
my
back
out
at
bingo,
‘cause
you
know
when
I
win
I

do
my
little
dance.
Blood
pressure’s
up
and
I
think
I
done
caught
the
gout,
but
as
you
know,
I

ain’t
one
to
complain.

Later,
when
she
reprimands
Elgin,
she
assumes
the
uncompromising
authority
of
the
Matriarch,
“Sit

yo’
ass
down.

Do
you
understand?
I
asked
you
a
question,
Elgin
Barret
Eugene
Smith
the
Third.
Do

you
hear
me?”
Completely
cowed
into
submission,
her
grandson
meekly
replies,
“Yes,
ma’am.”
As
a

combination
of
Mammy
and
Matriarch,
Elgin’s
grandma
embodies
a
host
of
familiar
and
entrenched

stereotypes:
she
is
wise
if
uneducated,
full
of
countrified
aphorisms
and
sonorous
pronouncements,

and
she
is
able
to
censure
the
younger
generation
with
one
raised
eyebrow.
This
depiction
borders

on
being
incredibly
offensive,
and
perhaps
is
only
recuperated
by
the
fact
that
a
black
filmmaker

wrote
and
directed
these
scenes
in
a
primarily
black
film.
Problematically,
Stokes
is
at
once

accurately
reflecting
the
lived
reality
of
African
American
domesticity,
while
coming
perilously
close

to
replicating
and
validating
some
of
the
more
damaging
black
stereotypes.

Race:
Black
Thugs
and
White
Theft

The
criminal
kingpin
Emerald
is
introduced
as
a
huge,
intimidating,
quintessentially
“scary”

black
man,
armored
with
a
permanent
scowl
and
a
gaudy
pinstripe
suit
with
evident
allusions
to

pimp
style.
He
is
so
villainous,
so
threatening,
in
short,
so
black,
that
his
character
is
one
of
the

broadest
strokes
in
an
already
broad
film,
but
one
that
is
totally
appropriate
for
the
overblown
world

of
the
Formula
Dance
genre.
This
is
one
of
many
instances
where
Stokes
employs
familiar
and

potentially
offensive
black
stereotypes
in
a
method
of
shorthand
characterization.
This
technique
is

perhaps
mitigated
by
the
fact
that
Stokes
is
African
American,
but
that
remains
a
debatable
and

ultimately
irresolvable
point
about
cultural
claimants;
whether
the
final
product
comes
from
the

first-‐hand
experience
of
a
young
black
filmmaker
raised
in
L.A.
or
simply
the
screenwriting

expediency
of
a
novice,
these
caricatured
figures
serve
their
proscribed
function,
efficiently
if

obviously
delineating
character,
theme,
and
plot.

337

While
the
Orange
County
contenders
represent
an
assault
on
the
protagonists’
territory
and

artistic
integrity,
Emerald
represents
a
more
critical
threat
of
violent,
even
fatal
retribution.
Although

the
stakes
of
the
dance
competition
are
given
life-‐or-‐death
gravitas
in
the
narrative,
no
one
is
actually

imperiled
at
the
Big
Bounce;
however,
a
marked
man
on
Emerald's
hit
list
faces
the
imminent
and

very
real
threat
of
injury
or
death.
Following
the
botched
heist,
Elgin
is
left
incapacitated
and

vulnerable
with
his
broken
leg,
and
he
seeks
sanctuary
at
his
grandmother’s
while
hiding
from

Emerald's
lackeys.
On
a
pastoral
afternoon,
he
hobbles
outside
with
his
grandma
to
kiss
her
goodbye,

and
an
anonymous
gangster
suddenly
enter
the
frame
and
forcibly
hustles
him
into
Emerald’s

waiting
car.
Captured
in
a
one-‐shot
that
pans
from
the
grandmother’s
receding
car
to
Emerald's
goon,

the
moment
is
sufficiently
shocking:
on
this
pleasant,
sunny
day,
on
an
seemingly
safe
residential

street,
a
dangerous
criminal
force
can
swiftly
penetrate
and
attack.
Once
trapped
in
the
car,
Emerald

lays
out
the
terms
of
the
new
situation
to
a
captive
and
terrified
Elgin.
The
drama
is
predictably

overwrought,
but
thanks
to
actor
Michael
Taliffero’s
size
and
growling
delivery,
Emerald’s
menace
is

entirely
believable.
The
dialogue
and
situation
may
feel
forced,
but
his
massive,
looming
physicality

has
enough
semiotic
history
and
heft
to
convey
danger
and
villainy.
When
he
delivers
the
sinister

ultimatum,
we
accept
it:
“I’m
gonna
give
you
a
few
weeks.
Don’t
play
me
El.
You
do,
you’ll
never
walk,

let
alone
dance
again.”
By
trading
on
shopworn
assumptions
and
internalized
conceptions
of
the
big

black
brute,
You
Got
Served
aligns
itself
with
the
unintended
but
no
less
detrimental
cinematic

tradition
of
using
the
a
black
male’s
physical
presence
and
racial
signifiers
to
instantly
represent

violence
and
criminality.

However,
as
frightening
as
Emerald
may
be,
this
situation
is
also
portrayed
as
fairly

commonplace
for
the
environment.
While
Elgin
and
David’s
hesitant
participation
in
street
crime
is

troubling
and
potentially
dangerous,
there
is
the
distinct
sense
that
their
involvement
is
still
part
of
a

natural
order,
endemic
to
the
ghetto
streets
of
Los
Angeles.
While
their
illicit
activity
may
be

underhanded,
we
have
entered
their
world
in
medias
res
and
it
is
simply
business
as
usual.
There
is

nothing
especially
shameful
or
unexpected
in
their
criminal
affairs,
and
their
behavior
is
justified
by

narrative
necessity,
since
these
scores
are
how
they
enter
dance
competitions
and
maintain

champion
status.
If
anything,
the
film
encourages
us
to
view
David
and
Elgin’s
situation
as
the

enterprising
if
misguided
recourse
of
inner
city
youth—without
any
other
options,
they
have
taken

on
this
dubious
extracurricular
job
to
fulfill
their
more
legitimate
dreams
and
perhaps
even
escape

the
ghetto.
In
the
Formula
Dance
world,
urban
centers
and
crime
are
inextricable,
and
while
this
may

ultimately
prove
harmful
for
the
protagonists,
we
comprehend
the
enmeshment.

338

The
great
white
menace
from
the
suburbs,
however,
represents
a
totally
new
and
disruptive

invasion
for
the
black
protagonists
that
threatens
not
only
geographic
boundaries
but
also
their
very

identity
and
status
on
their
home
turf.
Identified
at
first
only
as
“some
rich
kids
outta
Orange

County,”
the
white
characters
are
instantly
coded
as
a
new
and
virulent
strain.
Even
Emerald
and
the

nocturnal
street
world
have
the
comfort
of
familiarity
for
David
and
Elgin—it
may
be
dangerous
but

it
is
also
their
home
court
and
one
that
they
navigate
by
their
own
volition.
Now,
an
external
agent

has
abruptly
entered
their
previously
enclosed
universe.
Brazen
and
boasting,
Wade
and
his
second-‐
in-‐command
Max
are
introduced
via
a
videotaped
challenge
as
they
throw
down
the
gauntlet:

This
is
the
real,
$5,000
challenge.
Y'all
put
up
five
grand,
and
we'll
put
up
five
grand.
Your

crew
versus
our
crew.
We'll
let
you
pick
the
place,
we'll
even
let
you
pick
the
time.
And
as

much
as
we
don't
wanna
take
your
money,
the
word
is
you're
the
best
crew.
We
have
to

show
everyone
who
the
best
really
is.

In
this
video,
they
scowl,
puff
their
chests,
cross
their
arms
and
mug
for
the
camera
as
if
they
were
in

a
rap
video,
approximating
their
own
cartoonish
interpretation
of
gansta
behavior,
undoubtedly

gleaned
from
MTV,
BET,
etc.
In
a
region
as
notoriously
conservative
and
racially
homogenous
as

Orange
County,
exposure
to
black
culture
would
be
primarily
through
media
products,
not
actual

coexistence
and
contact,
leading
to
the
outlandish
ethnic
performances
of
these
“wiggas.”
Wade
and

Max
enact
the
familiar
imitation
of
white
youth
emulating
black
thug
culture,
which
reveals
both
the

limitation
and
potential
fluidity
of
racial
performance,
as
Patrick
E.
Johnson
addresses
in

Appropriating
Blackness:

In
the
instance
of
the
“white-‐talking”
black
and
the
“black-‐talking”
white,
the
person’s

authenticity
is
called
into
question
by
his
or
her
“own”
based
not
solely
on
phenotype
but

also
on
the
symbolic
relationship
between
skin
color
and
the
performance
of
culturally

inscribed
language
or
dialect
that
refers
back
to
an
“essential”
blackness
or
whiteness.

Within
racially
and
politically
charged
environments
in
which
one’s
allegiance
to
“race”
is

critical
to
one’s
in-‐group
status,
one’s
performance
of
the
appropriate
“essential”
signifiers

of
one’s
race
is
crucial.
The
white
is
condemned
as
a
“wigger”
(“white
nigger”)
or
the
more

pejorative
“nigger
lover,”
and
the
black
is
dismissed
as
an
“Oreo”
(black
on
the
outside
but

white
in
the
middle).
62

Their
overdone
mimicry
would
be
easily
dismissed
as
the
antics
of
clownish
wannabes,
if
it
were
not

for
their
undeniable
dance
skills.
Although
the
OC
crew’s
moves
have
been
shamelessly
cannibalized

from
black
dance
teams,
their
talent
and
technique
are
completely
valid
despite
the
questionable

sources
and
lack
of
authenticity.
As
Schloss
avers
in
his
on-‐site
observations,
ethnicity
is
a

62

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

Durham:
Duke
University
Press,
2003),
5-‐6.

339

particularly
thorny
issue
when
it
comes
to
evaluating
hip-‐hop
moves
and
culture
because

theoretically,
innate
skill
should
transcend
ethnic
identity
and
boundaries,
and
yet
the
form
is
still

inextricably
linked
to
race:

Another
significant
issue
has
been
the
relationship
between
b-‐boy
culture
and
ethnicity.

Clearly,
ethnicity
and
its
expression
through
culture
are
major
themes
of
most
scholarly

writing
about
hip-‐hop.
But
b-‐boying
presents
some
complex
challenges
in
that
area,
for

several
reasons.
First,
a
central
theme
of
b-‐boy
ideology
is
that
the
culture
is
a
meritocracy.

The
assumption
of
unbiased
competition
is
the
basis
of
almost
all
b-‐boy
philosophy;
the

idea
that
such
a
competitive
practice
should
favor
individuals
of
one
ethnicity
over
another

runs
directly
counter
to
the
ideals
of
the
dance.
Of
course,
this
is
not
absolute:
aesthetic

ideals
such
as
“flavor”
and
“soul”
implicitly
have
a
cultural
element
to
them.
63

In
You
Got
Served,
once
the
two
factions
are
in
competition
with
each
other,
the
lines
have
been

effectively
established,
pitting
L.A.’s
inner
city
against
the
detached
and
retrograde
OC
suburbs,
each

side
becoming
coded
like
a
postmodern
West
Side
Story.
The
whites
are
clearly
slumming
and

enjoying
the
safari-‐like
thrill
of
venturing
into
the
ghetto
and
challenging
the
natives,
in
a
cinematic

articulation
of
bell
hooks’
concept
of
eating
the
Other.
In
their
first
face-‐to-‐face
encounter,
the
white

conquerors
invade
black
territory,
insult
Elgin
(and
by
proxy
all
blacks),
and
call
them
out
on
their

own
turf.

After
Wade
and
Max
deliver
the
challenge,
they
speed
away
in
a
black
BMW
convertible,

attesting
to
their
wealth
and
privilege.
By
contrast,
David
and
Elgin
do
not
have
a
car
and
thus
cannot

readily
leave
the
geographic
(and
economic)
confines
of
their
neighborhood,
whereas
by
virtue
of

their
skin
color
and
its
attendant
benefits,
the
white
Orange
Country
boys
have
full
mobility

throughout
the
city.
They
have
the
freedom
and
ability
to
traverse
Los
Angeles,
creating
a
distinct

inequality
by
this
injurious
spatiality.

Los
Angeles
urban
planning
and
neighborhood
zoning
has

been
continually
decried
for
environmental
racism
as
it
has
historically
segmented
the
city
in
ways

that
purposely
cut
off
the
lower
income
minority
neighborhoods,
while
providing
affluent

communities
with
secured
isolation
and
greater
freeway
access.
Inner
city
Los
Angeles
is

unavoidably
associated
with
urban
black
exploits,
ranging
from
drug
use,
to
sexual
practices,
to

varied
gang
activity,
and
this
space
with
its
shady
inhabitants
represents
a
simultaneously

fascinating
and
frightening
site—just
the
sort
of
place
where
thrill-‐seeking
white
kids
from
the

suburbs
may
want
to
venture
and
explore,
as
Collins
details:

Depicting
poor
and
working-‐class
African
American
inner-‐city
neighborhoods
as
dangerous

urban
jungles
where
SUV-‐driving
White
suburbanites
come
to
score
drugs
or
locate

prostitutes
also
invokes
a
history
of
racial
and
sexual
conquest.
Here
sexuality
is
linked
with

63

Schloss,
Foundation,
15-‐16.

340

danger,
and
understandings
of
both
draw
upon
historical
imagery
of
Africa
as
a
continent

replete
with
danger
and
peril
to
the
White
explorers
and
hunters
who
penetrated
it.
Just
as

contemporary
safari
tours
in
Africa
create
an
imagined
Africa
as
the
“White
man’s

playground”
and
mask
its
economic
exploitation,
jungle
language
masks
social
relations
of

hyper-‐segregation
that
leave
working-‐class
Black
communities
isolated,
impoverished,
and

dependent
on
a
punitive
welfare
state
and
an
illegal
international
drug
trade.
Under
this

logic,
just
as
wild
animals
(and
the
proximate
African
natives)
belong
in
nature
preserves

(for
their
own
protection),
unassimilated,
undomesticated
poor
and
working-‐class
African

Americans
belong
in
racially
segregated
neighborhoods.
64

Endowed
with
the
advantages
of
class
status
directly
linked
to
their
race
and
zip
code,
the
OC
boys

have
the
luxury
of
visiting
the
hood
and
leaving
immediately
after;
of
trifling
with
the
residents
for

their
own
amusement,
and
then
hopping
back
on
the
Santa
Ana
freeway
and
back
to
the
safe

boundaries
of
their
gated
community.

When
Wade
peels
off
a
bill
from
his
large
roll
of
money
to
enter
the
battle,
we
get
the
sense

that
this
is
just
pocket
change
for
him,
whereas
the
black
boys
have
to
scrape
and
struggle
to
raise

the
money,
borrowing
and
even
stealing
in
order
to
match
the
purse
that
Wade
and
co.
so
effortlessly

dispense.
Therefore
the
conflict
moves
beyond
the
nominal
battle
of
two
dance
crews
and
into
the

complicated
nexus
of
race
and
class,
where
a
wealthy
white
majority
still
seems
to
exercise
a

monolithic
oppressor-‐oppressed
model
of
subjugation.
Even
their
obvious
admiration
for
the
black

crew
leads
to
an
instance
of
theft,
humiliation,
and
domination
as
the
whites
not
only
invade,
but

colonize
and
conquer
the
turf
once
ruled
by
a
black
crew.
Problematically,
the
OC
crew
may
be
bereft

of
morals,
but
they
have
also
considerable
talent,
and
it
should
be
acknowledged
that
they
perform

their
pirated
moves
with
skill
and
panache
almost
equal
to
the
protagonists.
Their
talent
however

does
not
fully
exonerate
their
appropriation
and
clear
thievery,
and
the
OC
crew
becomes
a
metonym

for
the
multi-‐century
theft
and
recuperation
of
black
culture.
This
tendency
get
literalized
in

dramatic
fashion
at
the
moment
when
the
OC
crew
defeats
the
protagonists
by
cheating
and
using

their
own
moves
against
them.

Yet
for
all
this
seemingly
inescapable
racial
discord
in
You
Got
Served,
race
is
simply
never

mentioned
in
the
entire
film.
Despite
the
obvious
coding
and
intentional
contrast
of
the
protagonists

(black)
and
the
antagonists
(white),
the
words
“black”
or
“white”
are
never
uttered,
and
the
racial

disparity
gets
transformed
into
an
economic
one
by
emphasizing
the
wealth
and
privilege
of
the

spoiled
OC
boys;
notably,
they
are
referred
to
as
“some
rich
kids,”
not
“some
white
kids.”
In
fact,
the

64

Collins,
Black
Sexual
Politics,
102.

341

issue
of
race
is
so
wholly
absent
from
the
dialogue
that
the
film
would
play
almost
exactly
the
same

with
an
all
black
cast
and
still
adhere
to
the
competition
dance
film
parameters.
However,
Stokes

made
the
conscious
decision
to
cast
rich
whites
as
the
villains,
and
yet
the
schism
is
never
overtly

addressed
within
the
narrative.
In
a
film
that
never
shies
away
from
the
literal,
the
obvious,
or
the

pedantic,
one
would
expect
an
equally
heavy-‐handed
invocation
of
race
relations
and
social
issues.

And
yet
Stokes
remains
silent,
leading
to
the
question,
why
does
the
racial
element
go
unmentioned?

Has
this
black/white
binary
become
so
familiar
and
connotative
that
it
requires
no
comment?
Does

the
visual
disparity
of
black
vs.
white
onscreen
automatically
embody
the
history
of
economic

injustice
and
cultural
appropriation?
By
eschewing
an
explicit
discussion
of
race
relations,
does
You

Got
Served
take
a
more
sophisticated
approach
by
assuming
audience
comprehension,
or
does
this

signify
a
more
dangerous
type
of
denial—a
refusal
to
address
a
conspicuous
issue
for
fear
of

compromising
a
lighthearted
film?
These
questions
have
no
immediate
answer
and
likely
require
a

confluence
of
considerations,
ranging
from
the
industrial
concerns
of
producing
commercial
film,
to

the
ideological
issues
inherent
to
any
discussion
of
racial
representation
in
the
media.
Above
all,
the

outwardly
superficial
nature
of
this
film
and
the
genre
as
a
whole
should
not
preclude
it
from
serious

analysis,
since
its
very
simplicity
masks
a
deeper
and
perhaps
darker
complexity
about
race
in

America.

Like
other
Formula
Dance
Films
to
follow,
Served
is
problematized
by
a
rather
slippery

ideology
that
makes
it
difficult
to
localize
any
strong
thematic
core
beyond
the
uplifting
power
of

dance
and
friendship.
It
is
at
heart
a
redemption
narrative
about
the
restoration
of
unity.
By

implication,
the
black
crew
wins
because
they
are
more
authentic,
more
original,
and
more
“real,"

whereas
the
opposing
OC
crew
resorted
to
theft
and
plagiarism,
so
according
to
the
morality
of
the

Formula
Dance
Film,
they
must
lose.
When
it
comes
to
addressing
race,
other
films
in
the
genre
take

several
approaches.
One
is
to
stage
a
black/white
conflict
only
to
harmoniously
reconcile
the
two

sides;
the
other
is
to
simply
obviate
the
conflict
by
having
an
all
black
or
all
white
cast
and

transfiguring
the
central
issue
as
a
cultural
clash,
not
a
racial
one.
However,
Served
posits
a
black

versus
white
conflict
that
never
gets
acknowledged
and
thus
never
gets
resolved.
The
black
crew

does
not
experience
a
mutually
enriching
fusion
with
the
OC
crew,
and
the
white
boys
remain
the

craven
antagonists.
The
real
narrative
drive
is
in
reuniting
the
two
brothers,
leaving
the
questions
of

race
and
class
troublingly
unacknowledged.
But
that
is
the
Formula
Dance
method,
and
ideally,
we

will
be
so
entranced
by
the
grand
finale
and
the
synaesthetic
burst
of
music
and
visuals,
that
we
no

longer
notice
or
care.
Therein
also
lies
the
potential
danger
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film.

342

6.
Back
to
School:
Black
Narratives
and
Upward
Mobility

While
the
archetypal
Formula
Dance
Film
relies
on
a
racialized
culture
clash
for
its
dramatic

conflict
and
thematic
content,
there
is
an
interesting
subset
of
dance
films
that
presents
an
all-‐black

narrative,
with
a
newly
specified
emphasis
on
self-‐improvement
and
upward
mobility.
These
films

focus
on
collegians
or
the
college-‐bound,
who
struggle
with
issues
of
authenticity,
cultural
roots,
and

intrinsic
identity
as
they
traverse
the
social
spectrum
from
‘hood
life
to
“bougie”
academic
existence.

Race
is
still
a
central
issue,
but
the
scope
has
become
narrowed
and
even
more
sharply
defined,
with

a
specificity
that
may
be
totally
unfamiliar
to
those
outside
the
demographic
niche.
With
collegians
as

the
protagonists,
these
all-‐black
narratives
often
engage
with
didactic
themes
of
betterment
that
rely

on
the
supposedly
universal
black
aspiration
to
escape
from
ghetto
life.
This
positivist
construction
is

very
much
reliant
on
Race
Man
theories
and
the
concept
of
the
Talented
Tenth
that
were
popularized

and
disseminated
throughout
the
twentieth
century.
With
varying
advocates
ranging
from
W.E.B
Du

Bois,
to
Martin
Luther
King,
to
Bill
Cosby,
this
construction
typically
involves
a
fair
degree
of

assimilation
and
adaptability.
This
does
not
suggest
a
wholesale
acceptance
of
the
status
quo,
but

rather
working
within
the
limitations
of
an
admittedly
flawed
system
to
incur
change
and
achieve

success.

In
his
seminal
1903
essay
“The
Talented
Tenth,”
Du
Bois
enumerates
the
qualities
and

responsibilities
of
the
African
American
leading
class,
based
on
the
importance
of
education:

The
Negro
race,
like
all
races,
is
going
to
be
saved
by
its
exceptional
men.
The
problem
of

education,
then,
among
Negroes
must
first
of
all
deal
with
the
Talented
Tenth;
it
is
the

problem
of
developing
the
Best
of
this
race
that
they
may
guide
the
Mass
away
from
the

contamination
and
death
of
the
Worst,
in
their
own
and
other
races…How
then
shall
the

leaders
of
a
struggling
people
be
trained
and
the
hands
of
the
risen
few
strengthened?

There
can
be
but
one
answer:
The
best
and
most
capable
of
their
youth
must
be
schooled
in

the
colleges
and
universities
of
the
land.

65

Advocates
and
orators
like
Du
Bois
and
Booker
T.
Washington
and
later
Martin
Luther
King
Jr.

exemplified
the
concept
of
“the
Race
Man,”
an
idealized
figuration
of
the
black
citizen
who
is

committed
to
community
uplift
and
to
elevating
and
inspiring
his
peers.
In
its
present
day

incarnation,
the
tenets
of
black
upward
mobility
favor
a
conciliatory
and
individualized
approach

rather
than
a
radical
or
revolutionary
one.
This
mentality
has
resulted
in
a
generational
and
cultural

65

W.E.B.
Du
Bois,
“The
Talented
Tenth,”
in
The
Negro
Problem
(An
African
American

Heritage
Book),
ed.
Booker
T.
Washington
(Radford,
Wilder
Publications,
2008),
11.

343

schism
within
the
African
American
community,
as
the
more
traditional
Race
Man
proponents

admonish
black
youth
and
certain
black
celebrities
for
perpetuating
negative
stereotypes.
From

criticizing
their
appearance
(baggy
pants
and
gang
paraphernalia)
to
reviling
their
behavior
(the
use

of
Ebonics
and
street
slang
instead
of
standard
English),
the
older
black
generation
often
expresses

dismay
and
chagrin
over
the
excesses
of
hip-‐hop
culture
and
its
influence
on
the
media

representation,
and
by
extension
the
public
perception
of
an
entire
race.
Instead,
black
youth
are

encouraged
to
apply
themselves
and
strive
for
access
and
equality
in
a
system
that
is
admittedly

predisposed
against
them,
rather
than
attacking
and
dismantling
the
system
itself.

The
most
basic
delineation
of
this
dichotomy
is
embodied
by
the
philosophies
and
praxes
of

Martin
Luther
King
in
opposition
to
Malcolm
X.
One
man
represented
the
Civil
Rights
movement,

non-‐violent
protest,
and
cooperative
integrationism,
while
the
other
championed
Nation
of
Islam

radicalism
and
extreme
separatist
action.
In
his
watershed
film
Do
the
Right
Thing
(1989),
Spike
Lee

literalized
this
schism
by
using
two
quotes
from
both
men
as
an
epilogue
to
his
film,
suggesting
both

an
affinity
and
a
fundamental
incompatibility
between
the
two
visionaries.
While
it
may
be
reductive

to
circumscribe
these
complex
men
by
their
quotes,
their
respective
positions
have
become

shorthand
for
the
divergent
approaches
to
black
politics.
However,
the
already
difficult
situation

became
compounded
by
the
emergence
of
rap
and
hip-‐hop
culture,
which
was
initially
highly

politicized
and
grounded
in
social
consciousness,
but
became
increasingly
diluted
and
compromised

by
an
apolitical
ethic
that
favored
conspicuous
consumption.

Since
its
emergence
in
the
late
1980s,
gansta
rap
and
its
attendant
culture
have
never
been

free
from
detractors
who
loathe
the
language,
decry
the
sexism,
and
fear
its
glorification
of

criminality
and
violence.
While
rap
music
has
predictably
been
indicted
by
white
guardians
of
family

values,
some
of
the
most
vehement
critiques
have
come
from
pillars
of
the
black
community,

including
Jesse
Jackson,
Al
Sharpton,
and
Bill
Cosby.
These
internal
rebukes
tend
to
be
more
severe

and
resonant—without
the
added
concern
of
being
called
racist,
black
commentators
have
the

flexibility
to
take
a
more
strident
stance.
Serving
as
an
avatar
for
the
Race
Man
position,
Bill
Cosby

created
a
stir
in
2004
when
he
addressed
the
issue
of
black
underachievement
with
a
surprisingly

brutal
honesty
at
several
public
speaking
engagements.
Renowned
for
his
role
on
The
Cosby
Show
as

Dr.
Huxtable
from
1984-‐1992,
Cosby
has
been
embraced
as
the
spokesman
for
the
respectable

upwardly
mobile
black
man:
portraying
an
affluent
doctor
in
a
middle-‐class
neighborhood
with
a

beautiful
lawyer
wife
and
intelligent
well-‐spoken
children,
the
show
was
groundbreaking
in
that
it

shattered
negative
stereotypes
about
urban
blacks
and
offered
a
depiction
of
bucolic
black
middle-‐

344

class
life
in
which
they
shared
in
the
American
Dream.
This
inoffensive
portrayal
was
a
boon
to
race

relations
and
media
representation
but
it
left
a
more
complex
legacy,
namely
the
burden
of

expectation.
If
the
Huxtables
could
do
it,
then
shouldn't
all
black
Americans
be
able
to
achieve
similar

material
and
social
success?
If
they
do
not,
it
must
be
their
fault,
some
innate
flaw
that
prevents
them

from
achieving.
In
that
sense,
while
The
Cosby
Show
successfully
dismantled
centuries-‐old

stereotypes
about
lazy,
ignorant,
and
criminal
blacks,
it
also
created
a
new
set
of
perhaps
unrealistic

expectations.
Personal
accountability
is
certainly
an
admirable
trait,
but
it
cannot
counteract

entrenched
systemic
inequality.

However,
Cosby
has
been
vociferous
in
his
condemnation
of
today’s

black
youth
and
parental
dereliction,
as
he
infamously
stated
in
his
address
to
the
NAACP
on
the
50
th

anniversary
of
Brown
vs.
The
Board
of
Education:

The
lower
economic
people
are
not
holding
up
their
end
in
this
deal.
These
people
are
not

parenting.
They
are
buying
things
for
kids.
$500
sneakers
for
what?
And
they
won't
spend

$200
for
Hooked
on
Phonics…They're
standing
on
the
corner
and
they
can't
speak
English.
I

can't
even
talk
the
way
these
people
talk:
Why
you
ain't,
Where
you
is,
What
he
drive,

Where
he
stay,
Where
he
work,
Who
you
be...
And
I
blamed
the
kid
until
I
heard
the
mother

talk.
And
then
I
heard
the
father
talk.
Everybody
knows
it's
important
to
speak
English

except
these
knuckleheads.
You
can't
be
a
doctor
with
that
kind
of
crap
coming
out
of
your

mouth.
In
fact
you
will
never
get
any
kind
of
job
making
a
decent
living.
People
marched
and

were
hit
in
the
face
with
rocks
to
get
an
education,
and
now
we've
got
these
knuckleheads

walking
around.
66

Over
one
hundred
years
after
Du
Bois’
essay
with
its
emphasize
on
education,
Cosby’s

comments
strongly
parallel
the
author’s
sentiment,
and
this
mode
of
thinking
provides
the
rationale

behind
a
subset
of
dance
films
that
focus
on
the
black
experience.
Without
the
more
volatile
and

externalized
conflict
of
black
vs.
white,
these
all-‐black
Formula
Dance
Films
create
a
more

internalized
struggle
for
the
protagonist.
In
each
film,
the
protagonists
are
depicted
as
brash

mavericks,
chafing
against
the
constraints
of
authority
(family,
school
boards,
etc.)
and
the
pressure

imposed
by
their
peers,
whether
it
be
the
miscreants
of
their
past,
or
the
judgmental
cohort
in
their

new
environment.
The
“headstrong
rebel”
and
“fish-‐out-‐of-‐water”
narrative
devices
are
incredibly

common,
so
like
most
structural
elements
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
there
is
nothing
especially

notable
or
original
in
these
storylines,
but
it
is
that
very
narrative
transparency
and
immediate

legibility
that
make
these
films
appealing
and
relatable
for
an
intended
audience.
Such
a
structural

plasticity
also
allows
these
films
to
quietly
instill
a
rigid,
even
reactionary
racial
ideology
into
what
at

first
appears
to
be
a
superficial
dance
story.
These
all-‐black
dance
films
in
particular
pose
a
unique

66

Bill
Cosby,
“The
Pound
Cake
Speech”
(lecture,
Washington
D.C.
May
17
th
,
2004).

345

negotiation
whereby
they
attempt
to
address
social
issues
and
prejudices
facing
black
youth,
without

sacrificing
the
raison
d’être
of
the
genre,
which
is
to
provide
light
entertainment.
Without
the
heavy-‐
handed
gravitas
of
a
true
social
problem
film,
the
all-‐black
Formula
Dance
Film
is
tasked
with

accurately
portraying
ghetto
culture
without
depicting
a
worldview
that
is
too
dour
or
too
pernicious

to
sustain
the
upbeat
dance
element.
Nothing
can
be
so
bleak
that
dance
cannot
conquer
all.
The

recurrent
themes
involve
balancing
conformity
with
resistance
and
tempering
self-‐discovery
with
a

degree
of
assimilation,
all
while
staying
true
to
the
‘hood.
These
interrelated
themes
all
manifest
and

symbolically
resolve
through
dance.
In
keeping
with
the
Formula
Dance
Film
logic,
dance
is
a

panacea,
offering
a
satisfying
if
temporary
resolution
to
serious
issues.

How
She
Move
and
Stomp
the
Yard
(both
2007)
are
quintessential
representatives
of
this

category.
In
each
film,
the
protagonist
is
suddenly
thrust
into
new
circumstances,
either
to
escape
a

downtrodden
environment
or
to
embark
on
an
enriched
future.

Along
the
way,
they
must
confront

their
own
hubris
to
learn
humility
and
the
value
of
community,
whether
it
be
the
bonds
of
a
dance

crew
or
the
black
population
as
a
whole.
There
is
a
continual
emphasis
on
education,
which
is
upheld

as
the
only
feasible
and
viable
option
for
African
American
youth.
The
other
option
is
to
descend
into

a
life
of
irredeemable,
illicit
activity
including
drugs,
theft,
gang
violence,
poverty,
or
for
the
female

characters,
single
motherhood
and
sexual
economies.
Although
each
character
looks
upon
the

institutions
of
higher
education
with
varying
preconceptions
and
beliefs
(ranging
from
fervent

longing
to
disdainful
mistrust),
it
is
still
the
only
available
recourse
for
them.
This
emphasis
on
black

education
has
resounded
throughout
the
last
century
and
is
still
evident
today
during
Obama’s

presidency
and
its
legislative
emphasis
on
academics
for
minority
youth,
both
in
rhetoric
and
policy.

In
the
quest
for
social
ascension,
education
remains
central,
and
college
attendance
gets

positioned
as
a
paramount
concern
and
the
key
to
success.
To
that
end,
the
singular
tradition
of

Historically
Black
Colleges
and
Universities
(HBCUs)
is
at
the
heart
of
this
impetus
for
betterment.

Originating
in
the
1900s
and
conceived
as
a
sort
of
sanctuary
and
training
ground,
the
purpose
of
the

HBCU
was
to
foster
black
achievement,
although
initially
there
was
disagreement
over
how
to

implement
the
best
methodology.
During
their
formation,
HBCUs
were
subject
to
the
often

contradictory
or
competing
impulses
of
pragmatism
(i.e.
developing
marketable
trade
skills
for

economic
security)
versus
the
loftier
goals
of
establishing
a
flourishing
black
intellectual
elite,
often

represented
by
the
dissenting
voices
of
Booker
T.
Washington
and
Dubois,
both
of
whom
heavily

influenced
the
HBCU
legacy
in
practice,
doctrine,
and
sprit,
as
chronicled
in
The
Black
College

Mystique:

346

First,
the
fact
that
these
institutions
served
a
population
previously
excluded
from
formal

education
led
leaders
such
a
Booker
T.
Washington
to
focus
on
immediate,
practical

education
that
could
be
applied
to
the
every
day
lives
of
African
Americans.
At
the
same

time.
W.E.B.
Du
Bois
advocated
that
Black
schools
also
serve
the
growing
intellectual

leadership
of
the
African
American
community.
Rather
than
choosing
a
Washingtonian
path

over
Du
Bois’
(or
vice
versa),
Black
colleges
and
universities
synthesized
both
approaches

because
such
an
amalgamation
was
in
the
best
interests
of
Black
Americans.
Through
an

approach
that
recognized
the
tragedy
of
Black
education
in
American,
HBCUs
emphasized

student
potential
over
student
performance,
which
likely
was
affected
by
a
lack
of
facilities

and
funding
in
the
elementary
and
secondary
schools.
Equally
important,
however,
was
the

charge
to
students
and
graduates
that
the
privilege
of
a
college
education
was
not
a
self-‐
serving
exercise;
rather,
it
was
a
community-‐supported
action
that
required
service
to
the

community
in
return.
67

It
its
present-‐day
function,
the
HBCU
is
still
largely
misunderstood
or
mischaracterized
by
the
greater

population,
with
a
frequent
concern
that
these
institutions
propagate
separatism.
In
The
Black

College
Mystique,
authors
argue
that
broader
discussions
about
black
colleges
get
overshadowed
by

the
perhaps
misplaced
energy
expended
on
dissecting
the
philosophy
behind
their
very
existence.

It

is
apparently
easier
for
critics
to
address
the
glaring
possibility
of
sanctioned
segregation,
rather

than
looking
deeper
into
the
actual
lived
reality
of
these
schools.
As
a
result,
the
HBCUs
are
forced
to

define
themselves
and
defend
their
value.
With
a
disproportionate
focus
placed
on
ontology,
little
is

actually
known
about
the
daily
inner
workings,
policies,
and
curricula
of
the
HBCU:

Because
Black
colleges
in
the
past
have
been
preoccupied
with
defending
their
right
to
exist,

they
have
not
had
the
privilege
of
fully
explaining
their
educational
goals
and
methods
from

which
others
might
benefit.
This
discussion
is
an
effort
in
that
direction,
an
explication
of

the
norms
that
guide
the
educational
experiences
provided
by
predominantly
Black

colleges…It
is
important
for
Black
colleges
to
recognize
that
their
contribution
has
been
not

for
the
benefit
of
Blacks
only
but
for
the
good
of
the
entire
system
of
higher
education
in

this
nation.
Such
recognition
will
strengthen
these
institutions
to
withstand
attempts
to

close
or
remake
them
in
the
image
of
White
colleges.
The
Black-‐college
experience
is
a

unique
one
in
higher
education
that
ought
to
be
preserved,
refined
and
shared.
68

Consequently,
the
administrators
of
HBCUs
must
engage
in
a
tricky
balancing
act
of
maintaining
the

integrity
of
their
institutions,
while
at
the
same
time
overcompensating
by
avoiding
overtly

contentious
discussions
of
race,
a
paradox
that
seems
to
plague
the
colleges
and
their
public

perception.
In
Ebony
Towers,
the
authors
tentatively
explore
the
topic,
which
they
view
as
hidden
in

plain
sight—black
uplift
is
the
nominal
purpose
of
the
HBCU,
and
yet
many
administrators
and

67

Charles
V.
Willie,
Richard
J.
Reddick,
and
Ronald
Brown,
The
Black
College
Mystique
(New

York:
Rowman
&
Littlefield,
2006),
72.

68

Ibid.,
4-‐5.

347

college
presidents
interviewed
in
the
book
are
reticent
to
broach
the
topic
or
even
use
the
word

“race,”
or
“black,”
which
speaks
to
the
overwhelming
and
transracial
impact
of
today’s
colorblind

mentality.
Racial
colorblindness
is
not
simply
a
pretense
created
by
white
liberals
and
would-‐be

progressives,
but
also
something
that
is
problematically
adopted
by
the
black
community.
HBCU

administrators
and
supporters
attempt
to
downplay
the
divisiveness
of
the
color
line
in
what
is

already
a
frequently
criticized
and
besieged
institutional
model,
and
the
HBCU
has
become
an

endangered
curiosity:

Historically
Black
colleges
and
universities
are
undeniably
racially
identifiable
higher

education
institutions.
Although
all
Black
colleges
do
not
have
a
dominant
African
American

student
enrollment,
the
inescapable
assumption
is
that
these
schools
are
populated
with

persons
of
African
descent.
A
school
that
is
identified
as
liberal
arts,
doctoral-‐granting,
or

community,
for
example,
immediately
conjures
up
ideas
about
their
focus
and
the
type
of

education
they
provide.
The
federal
designation
of
a
school
as
an
HBCU,
on
the
other
hand,

shifts
attention
from
what
is
being
offered
to
whom
it
is
being
offered
to.
Any
discussion
of

Black
colleges
is
incomplete
without
addressing
the
issue
of
race…Race
is
like
the
big

elephant
in
the
room
that
all
of
the
presidents
see,
but
act
as
if
it
is
invisible.
Race
is
the

invisible
elephant
that
explains
why
Black
colleges
are
often
perceived
negatively.
Race
is

the
unidentified
theme
that
clarifies
why
these
schools
are
heavily
scrutinized
and

criticized.
Race
is
the
unnamed
fact
that
exposes
the
huge
discrepancy
in
how
funds
are

distributed
among
Black
versus
predominately
White
colleges
and
universities…Ultimately,

race
is
the
salient,
yet
silent
theme.
69

As
both
a
physical
space
and
a
metaphor
of
social
mobility,
The
HBCU
is
present
in
the
all-‐black

Formula
Dance
Films
that
emphasize
self-‐improvement
through
education.
In
Stomp
the
Yard,
the

Historically
Black
College
is
not
only
a
concept
but
also
the
actual
campus
setting—it
is
a
site
of

cultivation
where
blackness
is
first
defined
in
oppositional
terms
(the
street
vs.
the
academy),
and

then
harnessed
for
positive
change.
In
How
She
Move,
the
HBCU
is
not
a
physical
site,
but
its
ethos

pervades
the
narrative,
since
the
protagonist’s
main
goal
is
to
earn
enough
money
for
college
through

her
participation
in
step
competitions.
In
both
films,
the
unquestioned
power
of
education
and
the

implicit
desire
for
escape
and
escalation
define
a
uniquely
black
experience
in
the
urban
dance
genre.

69

Roynelle
Bertrand
Ricard
and
M.
Christopher
Brown
II,
Ebony
Towers
in
Higher
Education

(Sterling:
Stylus,
2008),
109-‐110.

348

Stomp
the
Yard:
Step
Shows
and
Domesticated
Blackness

As
part
of
the
all-‐black
narrative
strand
of
the
Formula
Dance
cycle,
Stomp
the
Yard
reifies
not

only
higher
education
but
also
the
history
of
black
collegiate
traditionalism—from
the
fraternities
to

the
step
shows-‐-‐
and
the
film
itself
attempts
to
serve
as
part
of
an
ongoing
trajectory
of
African

American
culture
and
social
mobility.
Using
Robert
Adetuyi’s
screenplay
as
a
platform,
director

Sylvain
White
situates
his
film
within
a
celebratory
teleology
of
black
achievement.
The
story

becomes
both
a
reflection
of
contemporary
black
youth
and
a
curator
of
black
history.
Although
it

shares
the
same
urban
coolness
as
other
Formula
Dance
Films,
Stomp
is
also
replete
with
verbal
and

visual
references
to
landmark
historical
figures
and
momentous
events.
The
film
creates
continuity

between
the
college
step
shows
of
the
central
narrative
and
a
larger
African
American
history,

continually
affirming
that
step
shows
are
not
simply
street
dance
but
part
of
a
rich
and
layered

tradition,
as
documented
by
Elizabeth
Fine
in
her
ethnographic
study
Soulstepping:

Stepping
originated
on
college
campuses
among
black
fraternities
and
sororities
as
a
ritual

dance
performance
known
variously
as
“stepping,”
“blocking,”
“hopping,”
“demonstrating,”

and
“marching.”
These
complex
performances
involve
various
combinations
of
singing,

speaking,
chanting
and
synchronized
movement.
Fundamentally,
stepping
is
a
ritual

performance
of
group
identity.
It
expresses
an
organization’s
spirit,
style,
icons,
and
unity.

Stepping
also
is
a
vibrant
arena
for
the
display
of
African
American
verbal
and
nonverbal

art,
because
performers
craft
their
routines
from
such
black
folk
traditions
and

communicative
patterns
as
call
and
response,
rapping,
the
dozens,
signifying,
marking,

spirituals,
handclap
games,
and
military
chants,
mixing
them
with
tunes
and
images
from

popular
culture
into
a
relatively
new
performance
tradition.
70

Like
all
Formula
Dance
Films,
Stomp
the
Yard
stages
a
culture
clash,
this
time
between
the

‘hood
and
the
university
campus,
and
the
dance
corollary
of
improvised
street
dance
vs.
the
socially

sanctioned
and
rehearsed
professionalism
of
step
competitions.
Ultimately,
the
film
supports
the

benefits
of
cultural
fusion
but
it
still
sides
with
the
prestige
and
discipline
of
academics,
which
is
a

subtle
shift
from
the
white
vs.
black
narratives
in
which
whites
must
release
their
inner
soul
via
a

black
encounter.
In
the
typical
racial
dichotomy
narrative,
the
disciplined
imprint
of
the
academy
is

actually
posed
as
an
enemy
or
at
least
impediment
to
true
artistic
expression
and
liberation.
In
fact,

the
Step
Up
cycle
consistently
casts
the
antagonists
as
members
of
a
stodgy
draconian
school
board

or
narrow-‐minded
faculty—an
obstacle
that
the
strong-‐willed,
rebellious
protagonists
must

overcome.
Conversely,
the
implication
in
these
all-‐black
dance
films
is
that
black
folk
actually
have
a

70

Elizabeth
Fine,
Soulstepping:
African
American
Step
Shows
(Chicago:
University
of
Illinois

Press,
2003),
3.

349

surfeit
of
soul
that
while
enlivening,
must
also
be
controlled,
cultivated,
and
domesticated.
In
this

case,
the
domestication
comes
from
academics
and
the
discipline
of
campus-‐approved
step
shows.

Presumably
hampered
by
their
superego,
whites
must
access
a
repressed
passion
and
be
unleashed,

whereas
blacks—representing
a
lusty
and
vivacious
id-‐-‐must
be
tamed.
It
is
a
startlingly
regressive

implication
in
these
supposedly
affirmative
black
films,
and
a
testament
to
the
strong
conservative

message
that
undergirds
this
lighthearted
genre.
Stomp
the
Yard
ranked
number
one
at
the
box
office

in
its
opening
weekend,
71

despite
lukewarm
reviews
that
rightly
critiqued
the
film
as
clichéd
and

melodramatic.
The
plot
cleaves
to
the
genre
standards:
after
losing
his
brother
in
a
gang
shooting

directly
related
to
dance
battles,
DJ
Williams
(Columbus
Short)
leaves
his
urban
Los
Angeles
home

for
Atlanta.
He
unwillingly
enrolls
in
a
fictional
HBCU
called
Truth
University,
where
he
collides
with

the
administration
for
his
rebellious
criminal
past
and
faces
off
against
the
traditions
of
black

fraternity
step
dancing.
As
he
struggles
to
carve
a
place
for
himself
in
his
new
environment,
the

combination
of
romance
and
a
new
dance
style
help
DJ
forge
a
negotiated
existence
where
he
can

preserve
his
street
style
while
achieving
academic
success.

The
conservative
moral
is
nowhere
more
apparent
than
in
the
early
scenes
of
Stomp
the
Yard,

which
portray
the
same
street
battles
referenced
in
the
last
chapter,
but
present
them
in
an
entirely

different
manner—one
that
is
considerably
darker
and
more
condemnatory.
At
first
glance,
the

opening
five
minutes
of
Stomp
the
Yard
is
a
prototypical
Formula
Dance
Film
introduction.
Set
in
a

non-‐descript
warehouse
arena,
it
is
a
high-‐energy,
dancing
set-‐piece
designed
as
captivating

spectacle
with
very
little
dialogue
or
exposition.
However
as
the
scene
progresses,
the
imagery

becomes
increasingly
hectic
and
disturbing—a
marked
departure
from
the
playful
depiction
in
other

competition
films
like
You
Got
Served.
The
formal
properties
are
equally
disjunctive,
with
extreme,

disorienting
camera
angles,
and
manipulated
frame
rates
that
are
alternately
slow
motion
and

dizzyingly
fast.
This
distinctive
tonal
and
visual
shift
is
key
in
setting
up
the
thematic
stakes
and

ideology
of
Stomp
the
Yard,
which
will
ultimately
argue
that
street
dancing
must
be
tempered
by
the

discipline
of
college
step
dancing;
correlatively,
the
street
breeds
violence
and
discord,
whereas

academia
can
harness
and
safely
channel
that
raw
energy
into
productive
artistry
and

accomplishment.

In
this
first
battle
scene,
there
is
a
sinister
and
even
frightening
element
in
the
bizarre
crowd

and
manic
dancers.
Unlike
the
swaggering
good
cheer
in
similar
battle
films,
something
darker
is
at

71

Box
Office
Mojo,
http://boxofficemojo.com
(accessed
June
22,
2013).

350

play,
and
there
is
a
sense
of
the
wild,
savage,
and
grotesque.
In
a
typical
competition
dance
film,
the

crews
and
crowd
are
young,
fit,
and
attractive
like
the
extras
on
any
music
video
set.
Here
however,

they
are
eccentric
to
the
point
of
resembling
a
freakshow.
Like
escapees
from
a
hallucinogenic

midway,
impish
midgets
cavort,
a
costumed
man
in
decayed
Easter
Bunny
suit
stirs
the
crowd
by

making
obscene
gestures,
and
the
actual
dancers
are
“krumping”
in
ways
that
resemble
seizures
and

demonic
possession:
they
gyrate,
shake,
and
convulse,
with
their
eyes
rolling
back
to
show
the

whites.
Far
from
enjoyable,
the
battle
is
shown
as
freakish—a
carnivalesque
free-‐for-‐all
with
a

seething
undercurrent
of
hysteria,
compounded
by
the
rapid
cuts,
frantic
camera
work,
and
low-‐key

lighting.
The
overwhelming
aesthetics
convince
us
that
battling
is
simply
too
much,
too
raw,
and
too

dangerous.
Unlike
the
titillating
but
still
contained
energy
in
previous
films,
this
street
battle
is

shown
as
an
uncontrolled
and
animalistic
release.
Stomp
the
Yard’s
logic
encourages
us
to
view
the

battleground
as
destructive
and
crazed,
rather
than
a
place
of
camaraderie
and
artistic
invention.

Consequently
when
DJ
eventually
distills
and
redirects
that
street
energy
into
the
more
regulated

forum
of
step
shows,
he
merges
the
honor
and
dignity
of
black
college
tradition
with
a
ghetto
vitality,

suggesting
a
winning
alliance
through
appropriate
containment
and
a
degree
of
renunciation.
Street

dance
is
feral,
but
it
can
be
domesticated
and
cultivated,
while
overly
stuffy
tradition
can
benefit
from

an
injection
of
youth
culture.
However,
this
exchange
is
not
symmetric
and
the
value
system
of
the

film
is
weighted
on
the
side
of
propriety,
which
presents
an
interesting
critique
of
unfettered
street

culture,
as
if
exhorting
young
blacks
in
the
audience
to
choose
a
more
righteous
path.

The
nightmarish
instability
in
this
opening
battle
scene
is
no
random
flourish
of
art
direction:

it
foreshadows
a
very
real
and
devastating
occurrence
that
reminds
the
audience
that
gangland

ghettos
are
still
dangerous
places,
despite
the
talent
they
may
foster.
Although
Stomp
the
Yard
opens

in
an
interior
claustrophobic
space,
there
are
dialogue
cues
that
make
reference
to
inner
city
Los

Angeles,
a
locale
so
thoroughly
steeped
in
crime
genre
mythology
that
we
instantly
accept
and
expect

the
possibility
of
violence.
In
the
first
lines
of
dialogue
and
a
telling
character
introduction,
DJ

persuades
his
crew
the
Goon
Squad
to
stay
in
the
battle
for
a
larger
cash
prize
by
challenging
The

Thug
Unit,
led
by
a
scowling
Latino
dancer
named
Sphere.
The
L.A.
gang
signifiers
are
unmistakable

on
this
rival
crew,
most
notably
the
teardrop
facial
tattoos
on
the
male
members,
indicating
that
they

have
served
hard
prison
time
and
have
committed
murder
while
incarcerated.
DJ’s
little
brother

Duron,
played
by
a
baby-‐faced
Chris
Brown,
is
at
once
more
innocent
and
yet
more
pragmatic.
He

instantly
senses
the
potentially
volatile
situation
and
the
malice
emanating
from
The
Thug
Unit,

especially
given
that
the
Good
Squad
is
on
the
Latino
gang’s
turf:

351

I
don’t
wanna
diss
them
in
front
of
their
home
crowd…You
know
this
ain’t
our
spot,
D.
I’m

not
acting
scared,
I’m
acting
smart—you
should
try
it.

Given
the
dance
battle
film’s
emphasis
on
territoriality,
such
hesitance
is
atypical
for
competitive
b-‐
boys,
but
as
the
feverish
formal
elements
predict,
this
situation
is
different
and
discomfiting.

Presaged
by
the
aggression
of
the
opening
number,
there
is
a
simmering
danger
beneath
the
usual

bravado,
which
Duron
clearly
senses.
However,
DJ
ignores
his
little
brother’s
warning
and
displays
an

egotism
that
will
become
his
Achilles’
Heel
and
chief
character
flaw
throughout
the
rest
of
the
film:

he
recklessly
leads
his
crew
into
a
final
battle,
resulting
in
Sphere’s
humiliating
defeat.
Adding
insult

to
injury,
the
Goon
Squad—as
their
name
playfully
suggests—specializes
in
“clowning,”
a
variant
of

krumping
that
involves
comically
exaggerated
facial
expressions,
miming,
and
teasing
choreography.

Their
clowning
proves
even
more
frustrating
for
the
Thug
Unit,
because
not
only
is
the
Goon
Squad

technically
superior,
but
they
make
a
mockery
out
of
their
rivals
as
they
encourage
laughter
from
the

crowd
and
caper
like
expert
ringmasters.
These
raucous
abuses
are
common
in
other
battle
films,
but

in
this
scene,
The
Thug
Unit
has
been
served
in
their
own
arena,
and
suddenly
the
relatively

innocuous
world
of
dance
battles
merges
with
the
threat
of
gang
warfare.

In
every
urban
dance
film,
gang
violence
and
criminality
are
omnipresent
if
only
shadily

rendered
or
implicitly
suggested
by
the
location
and
mise
en
scène.
Even
in
the
more
upbeat
and

fairytale-‐like
Formula
Dance
Films,
the
potential
for
underworld
violence
is
always
a
possibility,
but

in
Stomp
the
Yard
the
gang
activity
is
brutal
and
very
real.
As
soon
as
The
Goon
Squad
leaves
the

warehouse,
Duron
impulsively
graffiti
tags
the
wall,
further
defiling
the
gang’s
territory.
Intent
on

retaliation,
Sphere
and
his
followers
emerge
from
the
shadows
and
viciously
attack
DJ’s
crew.

Without
any
provocation
or
warning,
Sphere
shoots
and
kills
Duron.
The
celerity
and
severity
of
the

attack
is
captured
with
unflinching
brutality.
It
is
a
swift
and
shocking
sequence
that
effectively

catalyzes
the
action
and
defines
DJ’s
emotional
journey:
after
the
incident,
DJ
harbors
inconsolable

guilt
for
causing
his
brother’s
death
by
his
own
caprice
and
selfish
desire
to
go
it
alone.

After
Duron’s
murder
and
his
own
subsequent
arrest,
DJ
is
shipped
off
to
his
Aunt
Jackie’s
in

Atlanta
as
a
means
of
intervention.

Against
his
will,
he
is
enrolled
in
Truth
University
where
his
blue

collar
but
dignified
Uncle
Nate
works
as
a
landscaper
and
pulled
strings
to
admit
his
wayward

nephew.
As
seen
in
other
films
like
You
Got
Served,
the
older
generation
represents
the
moralizing

mouthpiece
for
the
film’s
central
themes.
Depending
on
the
finesse
of
the
screenplay,
this
can
range

from
campy
sermonizing
to
a
more
finely
tuned
commentary.
In
Stomp
the
Yard,
Uncle
Nate
serves
as

the
enunciator
for
a
treatise
on
generational
rifts
and
the
need
for
black
youth
to
reassess
their

352

misplaced
values
by
embracing
the
ties
of
community
and
the
elevating
powers
of
education.
While

Uncle
Nate’s
dialogue
may
verge
on
preachy,
actor
Harry
J.
Lennix
has
a
quiet
dignity
and
believable

screen
presence,
with
a
diction
and
dialect
similar
to
President
Obama—we
instantly
accept
his

authority
and
uncompromising
ethics,
and
DJ
seems
immature
and
short-‐sighted
in
comparison.

This
tendency
to
deify
older
black
characters
is
symptomatic
of
the
all-‐black
upward
mobility

narratives
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle,
which
seek
to
accurately
replicate
and
represent
black
culture.

This
representation
ideally
includes
a
reverence
for
elders
and
the
pillars
of
the
black
community

such
as
church,
school,
and
family.
In
another
narrative
form
with
a
different
racial
demographic,
the

parents
would
simply
not
understand
the
troubled
dancing
teen,
and
audiences
would
be
encouraged

to
side
with
the
youthful
rebel.
However
in
this
film,
the
adults
may
act
like
rigid
disciplinarians
but

they
are
actually
in
the
right,
and
DJ
is
the
one
who
will
have
to
change
or
at
least
compromise.
From

the
start,
Stomp
the
Yard
is
a
rather
conservative
morality
tale
about
maintaining
a
sense
of

individuality
while
ultimately
assimilating
and
adopting
a
respectable
lifestyle
for
the
sake
of

honoring
the
black
community.
The
moral
lesson
is
that
you
can
keep
street
flavor
in
your
heart,
but

you
must
give
back
to
the
community
and
be
a
worthy
representative
of
your
race.

Once
DJ
settles
in
at
Truth
University,
the
film
proper
begins
and
the
plot
follows
standard

Formula
Dance
protocol,
interweaving
romance
with
dance
competitions.
Intent
on
remaining
a

loner,
DJ
attempts
to
stay
outside
the
fray
of
college
activities
and
he
shows
no
interest
in
pledging

the
heralded
black
fraternities
that
specialize
in
“stepping”
and
compete
for
national
titles.
He
is

bemused
by
his
first
exposure
to
step
shows,
unaware
of
their
history
and
importance
and
perplexed

by
their
regimentation.
After
displaying
his
freestyle
skills
at
a
local
club,
the
two
rival
step
crews,

Theta
Nu
Theta
and
Mu
Gamma
Xi,
both
court
him,
but
as
he
curtly
demurs
“I
don’t
step,
man.
I

battle.”
Simultaneously
he
falls
for
and
begins
to
court
the
winsome
April
Palmer
(Meagan
Good),
a

paramour
with
significant
baggage
considering
that
her
current
boyfriend
Grant
(Darrin
Henson)
is

the
controlling
leader
of
the
Gammas
and
her
father
is
the
college
Provost,
setting
up
several

dramatic
clashes.
The
non-‐dancing
climax
comes
to
a
head
when
DJ’s
hidden
criminal
background

gets
investigated
by
the
Ethics
Committee,
who
suspend
him.
The
Machiavellian
Provost
offers
to

reinstate
DJ
if
he
agrees
to
stop
dating
his
daughter.
Ultimately,
April
asserts
her
independence
and

persuades
her
father
to
recant,
allowing
DJ
to
stay
in
school
and
participate
in
the
step
Nationals.

Although
the
simplistic
plot
is
average
Formula
Dance
fare,
Stomp
the
Yard
is
distinctive
in
its
almost

ethnographic
focus
on
the
specificity
of
the
black
college
experience.

By
foregrounding
the
symbiosis

of
step
shows
and
the
legacy
of
black
universities,
Stomp
offers
an
intimate
portrait
of
a
subculture

that
situates
this
contemporary
dance
story
within
a
larger
national
context
and
history.

353

The
film’s
core
message
is
that
betterment
through
education
is
the
only
solution
for
closing
the

achievement
gap
for
blacks,
and
while
this
solution
may
not
be
realistic,
Stomp
does
engage
more

readily
in
the
political
dimension
of
race
relations
than
other
films
that
seek
to
deny
race
all
together.

In
addition
to
foregrounding
the
importance
of
a
college
degree,
Stomp
also
depicts
the
relatively

unexplored
setting
of
HBCUs,
which
despite
their
history
and
significance,
are
relatively
unknown
to

the
general
public
and
little
understood
outside
the
black
community.
Although
the
film’s
chief
focus

is
on
stepping,
that
activity
and
DJ’s
own
personal
journey
from
ghetto-‐bred
selfishness
to
personal

accountability,
directly
reflect
the
sole
purpose
of
the
HBCU.
Even
though
the
film
does
not
explicitly

engage
in
a
historicizing
exposition
about
the
college
itself,
DJ’s
transformation
and
the
overall

atmosphere
of
Truth
University
accurately
represent
the
real
life
polices
and
concerns
of
the
HBCU,

and
DJ
becomes
the
personification
of
its
ideal
student.

Over
the
years,
Historically
Black
Colleges
like
the
fictional
Truth
University,
have
developed

slightly
amended
and
augmented
admittance
policies
and
curricula
based
on
the
unique
needs
of

their
applicants.
The
HBCU
admissions
takes
a
situational
stance
by
placing
an
emphasis
on
more

qualitative
assets
such
as
student
potential,
and
the
aim
is
to
identify,
nurture,
and
develop
student

talent
and
intellect.
This
is
in
opposition
to
common
admission
practices
that
are
more
quantitative

and
based
exclusively
on
test
scores
and
finite
achievements
and
accolades.

This
HBCU
tactic
could

easily
be
misinterpreted
as
a
laxity
and
weakening
of
standards
in
the
admissions
process,
but
it
is
in

fact
an
accommodation
to
the
reality
of
inequality
and
discrepant
access.
Simply
put,
it
is
not
a
level

playing
field
and
this
HBCU
practice
signifies
an
acknowledgment
that
due
to
overlapping
economic

and
cultural
factors,
many
black
entrants
will
not
have
the
same
test
scores
and
qualifications
as

other
applicants.
The
HBCU
policy
and
its
underlying
philosophy
ties
into
to
Stomp
The
Yard:
DJ’s

characterization
as
a
prodigal
son
exemplifies
the
HBCU
mission,
which
is
to
take
a
black
student
out

of
negative
circumstances,
and
through
encouragement
and
support,
teach
him
the
importance
of

core
values
while
providing
him
with
an
invaluable
education.
Although
we
learn
that
his
Uncle
Nate

pulled
strings
to
ensure
DJ’s
admission
despite
his
criminal
record,
this
very
narrative
point
speaks

to
the
HBCU
ethos—sinners
can
be
redeemed
and
everyone
has
potential
that
should
be
cultivated:

In
the
postbellum
era
to
the
modern
day,
Black
colleges
have
understood
the
inadequacy
of

educational
opportunity
not
just
for
Blacks
but
for
other
groups
in
American

society…Hence,
historically
black
institutions
have
sought
to
fill
their
classrooms
with

capable
students
with
a
full
understanding
of
this
disparity.
These
college
admissions

decisions
tend
to
emphasize
indicators
such
as
character,
strong
work
ethic,
and
the
ability

to
overcome
obstacles—precisely
the
same
criteria
that
many
predominantly
White
private

institutions
(and
large
public
institutions
in
the
aftermath
of
affirmative
action
lawsuits)

extol.
Such
a
philosophy
at
the
front
door
does
not
equate
to
mediocrity
in
educational

354

attainment,
however.
These
very
same
institutions
have
produced
more
professionals
and

leaders
that
one
would
expect
and,
in
some
instances,
more
Black
students
of
high

intellectual
caliber
than
other
types
of
institution
in
the
American
higher
education

system.
72

Those
words
could
easily
be
applied
DJ—he
is
a
good
person
and
a
hard
worker,
and
those
innate

qualities
outshine
and
eventually
overrule
his
initially
thuggish
demeanor
and
apparent
nihilism.

Education
saves
him,
and
DJ
becomes
an
HBCU
success
story
made
flesh,
the
poster-‐child
for

betterment
and
community
uplift.

The
most
potent
manifestation
of
the
film’s
message
comes
at
the
end
of
Act
II,
when
DJ
gets
a

crash
course
in
black
history.
Before
his
transformation,
DJ
is
still
an
outsider,
refusing
to
integrate

into
campus
social
life.
Alternately
sullen
or
sarcastic,
he
cannot
comprehend
the
allure
of
the
step

show
and
fraternities
until
April
knowingly
suggests
that
he
visit
Heritage
Hall,
the
university’s

museum
and
archive.
The
Heritage
Hall
sequence
is
admittedly
heavy-‐handed
but
undeniably

uplifting,
as
DJ
gazes
at
the
artifacts,
including
photographs
of
Martin
Luther
King,
Rosa
Parks,
and

other
Civil
Rights
imagery.
On
an
affective
level,
this
scene
is
meant
to
elicit
emotion
and
tap
into
the

collective
power
of
memory,
nostalgia,
and
pain
left
by
the
deep
psychological
wounds
of
racism.
On

a
formal
level,
the
meditative
solemnity
of
the
camera
work
in
concert
with
the
orchestral
scoring

enhances
this
intended
impact.
The
photographs,
plaques,
and
memorials
collectively
symbolize
the

struggles
and
triumphs
of
his
ancestors,
and
as
DJ
walks
though
the
halls,
he
gets
stitched
into
the

fabric
of
black
history.
If
the
sincerity
of
the
scene
borders
on
maudlin,
one
still
cannot
deny
the

power
and
importance
of
these
images.
The
filmmakers
remind
us
that
this
is
not
ancient
history
but

America’s
recent
past,
and
that
today’s
young
blacks
have
it
in
their
power
to
shape
and
mold
the

next
phase
of
history.
DJ
becomes
instilled
with
a
sense
of
personal
and
communal
responsibility,
and

he
realizes
that
he
must
contribute
to
the
ongoing
trajectory.
This
scene
can
easily
be
dismissed
as
a

moment
of
forced
sentimentality
and
clichéd
movie
inspiration,
but
it
can
just
as
easily
be
read
as
a

powerful
declaration
about
the
historical
continuum
for
African
Americans,
and
their
ongoing

struggle
for
equality
and
uplift.
Regardless
of
one’s
interpretation,
this
scene
stands
out
in
tone
and

temperament,
and
it
serves
as
DJ’s
moment
of
epiphany.
Beautifully
shot
and
composed,
the
camera

glides
and
lingers
in
contrast
to
the
fast-‐paced
editing
in
the
rest
of
the
film.
As
DJ
stands
in
silence,

the
scene
ends
with
an
elegiac
long
take
as
the
camera
slowly
tracks
forward
to
a
close-‐up
of
his
face,

72

Willie,
Reddick,
and
Brown,
The
Black
College
Mystique,
72-‐73.

355

elevating
the
cinematography
to
a
level
of
expressive
lyricism
typically
absent
in
the
Formula
Dance

cycle.

After
his
Heritage
Hall
conversion,
DJ
relents
and
joins
the
underdog
Theta
house
and
the

genre’s
narrative
formula
moves
steadily
on
with
preliminary
trials,
rehearsals,
and
the
final

competition.
While
DJ’s
improvisational
skill
and
street
style
are
a
boon
to
the
Thetas,
the
straight-‐
laced
and
humorless
team
captain
Sylvester
(Brian
J.
White)
rebukes
DJ’s
ghetto
tendencies
and
lack

of
discipline.
The
two
initially
clash
and
advocate
oppositional
dance
styles.
DJ
argues,
“The
problem

is
these
lame-‐ass
steps
they
got
us
doin’.
Instead
of
us
trying
to
fit
step,
we
gotta
make
step
fit
our

natural
rhythm.”
When
DJ
interpolates
his
battle
moves
into
the
routines,
Sylvester
is
aghast,
but
DJ

counters
him:

Sylvester:
Are
we
doing
a
step
show
or
are
we
doing
a
rap
video?

DJ:
The
only
reason
you
holdin’
on
to
all
that
talk
about
tradition
is
because
you
cannot
keep

up
with
the
present.

In
response,
Sylvester
challenges
DJ
and
the
newbies
to
a
battle
of
Old
School
vs.
New
School.
During

this
civil
war-‐like
battle,
the
Theta’s
solidarity
almost
crumbles
when
DJ
tries
to
go
it
alone
and

showboats
in
a
solo,
but
his
lowest
point
leads
to
eventual
redemption
and
he
reintegrates
into
the

group.

DJ
and
Sylvester
realize
their
mutual
dependence
on
each
other,
and
each
man
accedes
to
the

other’s
style:
DJ
learns
to
respect
the
traditionalism
of
step,
and
Sylvester
allows
DJ
to
inject
the

freshness
of
his
street-‐bred
originality
into
the
repertoire.
Their
dialogic
acceptance
actually
mirrors

the
real
practices
of
step
groups
on
black
college
campuses,
where
official
tradition
continually

makes
room
for
new
additions
and
interpretations:

Stepping
is
also
exciting
because
it
is
reflexive,
able
to
preserve
and
tell
a
part
of
its
history

through
one
type
of
step
called
a
“retrospect.”
A
retrospect
might
recount
details
about
the

founding
of
a
fraternity
or
sorority
as
well
as
celebrate
favorite
steps
from
the
past
by

performing
them
in
a
medley.
While
steppers
respect
tradition
and
keep
“signature”
or

“trade”
steps
alive,
they
constantly
innovate,
bending
the
old
to
serve
the
new
and
in
the

process
creating
the
unexpected.
The
verbal
component
of
stepping
allows
participants
to

speak
in
a
particularly
powerful
way.
Whether
it
is
to
shout
and
stomp
out
their
group’s

name,
impart
a
political
or
spiritual
message,
sing
their
own
praises,
or
humorously
put

down
rival
groups,
the
combination
of
stylized
verbal
and
movement
patterns
creates
an

unusually
powerful
rhetoric.
73

73

Fine,

Soulstepping,
3.

356

DJ’s
epiphany
about
teamwork
and
cultural
fusion
coincides
with
his
romantic
success
as
April

admits
her
love
and
chooses
DJ
over
Grant.
Once
the
romantic
intrigue
is
resolved,
every
story
point

culminates
in
an
exuberant
final
battle,
where
DJ
leads
the
Thetas
to
victory
at
the
national

championship.
Like
almost
every
Formula
Dance
Film,
the
final
shot
is
a
freeze
frame
on
the
jubilant

winners,
but
in
keeping
with
its
historiographic
emphasis,
Stomp
the
Yard
adds
a
visual
coda
that

suggests
a
more
expansive
legacy,
one
that
exists
outside
the
temporal
bounds
of
this
particular
film.

The
freeze
frame
color
shot
dissolves
into
a
black
and
white
still,
and
as
the
camera
pulls
back,
we

realize
that
it
is
a
framed
photograph
hung
in
Heritage
Hall,
permanently
memorializing
their

moment
of
triumph
and
securing
the
dancers’
place
in
the
history
of
black
achievement.

Cementing

the
message,
the
screen
fades
to
black
and
ends
with
an
epigraph
from
Martin
Luther
King,

“Intelligence
plus
character—that
is
the
goal
of
true
education.”

How
She
Move
and
the
Diasporic
Dream

In
2007,
the
release
of
How
She
Move
represented
yet
another
Formula
Dance
entry
in
what

had
by
then
become
a
recognizable
film
cycle.
With
its
tropes
firmly
established,
each
new
addition

employed
the
marketable
mold
to
insure
commercial
viability
and
success.
No
longer
perceived
as
an

anomaly
or
quaint
throwback,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
had
proven
its
box
office
appeal.
In
this
sense,

How
She
Move
is
distinctive
in
that
it
both
adheres
to
industry
expectations
and
generic
formulae,

while
also
subverting
them
and
introducing
completely
new
elements
to
the
standardized
character

types,
storylines,
and
set-‐pieces.
How
She
Move
is
by
no
means
radical
and
it
fits
comfortably
into

dance
film
conventions,
but
it
takes
an
alternate
approach
to
these
familiar
staples.

It
is
in
many

respects
a
smaller
film
in
terms
of
scope
and
style,
with
a
more
measured
pace
and
quieter
tone.

Aesthetically,
How
She
Move
is
much
grittier
than
its
counterparts,
with
intentionally
shaky
hand-‐
held
camerawork
that
is
more
akin
to
documentary-‐style
realism
than
to
the
glossy
overproduction

equated
with
the
typical
Formula
Dance
Film.

Like
many
teen
dance
films,
How
She
Move
is
an
MTV
joint
project,
but
this
association
is

simply
a
distribution
partnership
that
bears
little
impact
on
the
aesthetic
of
the
film
itself.
The
actual

development
and
filming
was
done
by
the
independent
Canadian
company
Sienna
Films,
so
even

though
the
movie
bears
the
MTV
moniker
and
pedigree,
it
is
far
removed
from
that
music
video

flashiness
and
polish.
The
film
was
initially
meant
as
a
strictly
Canadian
release,
but
its
favorable

showing
at
Sundance
in
2007
caught
the
attention
of
Vantage
Pictures
and
MTV,
who
contributed
an

additional
$12
million
to
the
budget
for
promotion,
reshoots,
and
sound
remixes.
Nominated
for
the

Sundance
World
Cinema
Grand
Jury
Prize,
How
She
Move
garnered
largely
favorable
reviews,

357

especially
in
comparison
to
the
more
derisive
critical
reception
of
other
Formula
Dance
Films.

Screenwriter
Annemarie
Morais’
script
was
based
on
an
expansion
of
her
2004
documentary
short

on
step-‐dancing,
which
led
to
a
financing
deal
to
produce
a
feature
length
fiction
film
on
the
subject.

Second-‐time
director
Ian
Iqbal
Rashid
helmed
the
independent
project,
and
in
concert
with
Morais’

concept,
the
two
collaborators
instill
a
transnational
flavor
to
the
film
that
sets
it
apart
in
the
cycle.

The
most
established
name
in
the
entire
production
is
choreographer
Nadine
“Hi
Hat”
Ruffin,
a
New-‐
York
based
hip-‐hop
dancer
who
has
worked
on
numerous
music
videos,
TV
and
awards
shows,
and

multiple
Formula
Dance
Films,
including
Bring
It
On
and
the
Step
Up
films.
Given
the
primacy
of

dancing
in
How
She
Move,
it
is
appropriate
that
the
choreographer
is
essentially
the
auteur
of
the
film

and
leaves
the
most
memorable
impression.
Newcomer
Rutina
Wesley
plays
17-‐year-‐old
Raya,
who

is
forced
to
leave
private
school
and
return
to
her
old
neighborhood
after
her
sister’s
drug-‐related

death.
Intent
on
reclaiming
her
prestige
education,
Raya
enters
the
world
of
step
competitions
with

an
all-‐male
crew
to
earn
money,
return
to
her
private
school,
and
secure
eventual
college
admission.

Like
other
Formula
Dance
rebels,
Raya
has
to
contend
with
the
dynamics
of
a
crew,
navigate
the

difficulties
of
‘hood
life,
initiate
a
romance
with
a
new
love
interest,
and
ultimately
find
a
balance

between
her
academic
aspirations
and
her
dancing
passion.

Set
in
the
tenement
slums
of
Toronto’s
Jane-‐Finch
neighborhood,
How
She
Move
has
a
frigid

quality,
with
a
subdued
color
palette
of
blues,
greens,
and
blacks,
shot
almost
entirely
in
dilapidated

interiors
or
against
a
bleak,
deserted
cityscape.
This
is
not
the
vibrant
urban
club
life
depicted
in

other
Formula
Dance
Films,
where
the
vibe
is
irrepressibly
energetic
and
the
visuals
are
almost

cartoonishly
colorful.
This
is
an
insular
all-‐black
story
about
desperation
and
dead-‐ends,
so
the
mise

en
scène
is
appropriately
dreary.
However,
the
singularity
of
How
She
Move
is
not
limited
to
its

formal
components.
It
also
has
unique
properties
in
terms
of
narrative,
setting,
and
character
that

distinguish
the
film,
even
as
it
seamlessly
meshes
with
the
crystallizing
traditions
of
the
genre.

Interestingly,
this
is
the
only
dance
film
to
address
a
diasporic
African
community,
as
all
the

characters
are
Jamaican
and
the
teenagers
are
first-‐generation
citizens
born
of
working-‐class
but

fiercely
protective
immigrant
parents.
The
Jane-‐Finch
neighborhood
is
notorious
for
its

concentration
of
criminal
gangs
and
a
predominantly
refugee
and
immigrant
population,
and
this

environmental
specificity
pervades
the
film.
While
the
parents
are
forced
into
menial
jobs
to
make

ends
meet,
they
uphold
rigorous
academic
and
behavioral
standards
for
their
children,
giving
the

conflict
a
richer
texture
as
the
film
simultaneously
addresses
generational
rifts,
transnational
culture

clash,
and
the
American
Dream
counterpoised
by
an
immigrant
reality.
Drawing
on
his
own

experiences
as
a
Tanzanian
refugee
who
sought
asylum
in
the
U.K.
and
Canada,
Rashid
adds
a
deeply

358

personal
note
of
experience
to
Morais’
script,
and
she
in
turn
endows
the
project
with
an
authenticity

and
familiarity
as
a
Toronto
native.

While
academic
achievement
and
generational
improvement
are
common
themes
in
the
all-‐
black
Formula
Dance
Films,
in
How
She
Move
this
theme
is
strengthened
by
the
subtle
but
powerful

disparities
between
expat
African
emigrees
and
African
Americans.

There
is
often
an
unspoken
but

palpable
hostility
between
the
two
groups
and
a
certain
level
of
disapproval
and
disavowal
on
the

part
of
African
immigrants,
who
believe
that
African
Americans
are
low
class,
negative
influences.
As

Raya’s
mother
says
towards
the
film’s
denouement,
“This
is
what
happens
when
smart
girls
make

proper
use
of
their
time.
Leave
the
fools
to
their
foolishness”—in
that
particular
instance,
she
is

deriding
the
step
competitions
as
a
waste
of
time
and
potential,
but
more
globally,
she
is
critiquing

the
American-‐born
black
youth
culture
that
she
views
as
thuggish,
ignorant,
and
devoid
of
ambition

or
future
success.

Complementing
the
austere
aesthetics,
the
narrative
in
How
She
Move
is
likewise
pared
down

and
minimalist.
Like
most
Formula
Dance
Films,
the
run-‐time
is
an
hour
and
a
half,
but
unlike
similar

films
that
compress
an
entire
school
year
into
ninety
minutes
(which
contributes
to
the
genre-‐wide

reliance
on
montage),
this
film’s
diegesis
takes
place
over
the
course
of
only
a
few
weeks,
giving
it
a

taut
quality
and
insistent
momentum.
With
its
doc-‐style
camera
work
and
slice-‐of-‐life
approach,
How

She
Move
is
not
encumbered
by
any
pretense
of
seeming
epic
or
grandiose.
Rather,
it
is
a
brief
look

into
a
private
and
highly
specific
subculture.
This
microcosmic
approach
to
the
narrative
is
mirrored

by
the
recurrent
theme
of
how
small
moments
can
become
momentous,
as
the
heroine
articulates
in

her
opening
monologue:

I
had
this
plan:
study
hard
in
private
school.
Study
harder
in
medical
school.
Make
everyone

proud.
Make
a
new
life
far
from
the
old
neighborhood…It’s
funny
isn’t
it?
How
one
moment

changes
a
million
after
it.

From
the
opening
credits,
this
film
positions
itself
as
an
intimate
story—not
the
blazon
of
a

generation
or
a
race—and
it
is
up
to
the
viewer
to
extrapolate
or
make
connections
to
larger
social

issues.
Unlike
Stomp,
which
took
on
the
herculean
task
of
using
dance
as
a
metaphor
to
trace
the

entire
history
of
Civil
Rights
and
black
empowerment,
How
She
Move
is
a
smaller
story,
an
ephemeral

glimpse
that
can
have
larger
significance
depending
on
the
viewer’s
eisegesis.
The
Formula
Dance

Film
will
never
be
noted
for
its
subtlety,
and
any
subtext
or
psychological
motivation
will
invariably

be
stated
aloud,
simply
for
the
sake
of
maintaining
the
clarity
and
brisk
pacing
that
support
the

earnest
vitality
of
these
films.
How
She
Move
is
no
exception
in
that
the
central
themes
and
narrative

359

stakes
are
explicitly
introduced
and
unambiguously
rendered
in
the
opening
minutes
of
the
film.
It
is

one
of
the
few
films
in
the
cycle
to
employ
a
first
person
voice-‐over
narration,
differentiating
it
from

the
pack
by
immediately
ensconcing
us
within
Raya’s
subjectivity.
It
is
unequivocally
Raya’s
story,

and
while
other
FDFs
may
also
follow
the
travails
of
a
single
determined
character,
the
opening
of

How
She
Move
asserts
that
this
will
be
a
character-‐driven
story
about
self-‐improvement
and
the

desire
to
escape
current
circumstances.
In
that
sense,
Raya’s
opening
monologue
could
serve
as
the

definition
for
the
entire
subset
of
all-‐black
dance
films.

Like
all
its
urban
dance
counterparts,
How
She
Move
has
a
straightforward
narrative
and
a

streamlined
plot.
After
her
wayward
junkie
sister
dies
from
a
heroin
overdose,
Raya
is
forced
to

move
back
to
her
parents’
home
after
all
the
family’s
money
has
been
drained
to
pay
for
futile
rehab

and
funeral
costs.
After
dropping
out
of
her
posh
prep
school,
Raya
suddenly
finds
herself
back
in
her

old
neighborhood
and
high
school,
leading
to
an
inevitable
culture
clash
with
old
acquaintances
who

attack
her
uppity
pretensions
(“Don’t
go
slumming
on
our
account”).
Determined
to
regain
her

footing
and
attend
medical
school,
Raya’s
only
option
is
to
compete
for
tuition
money
by
taking
a

scholarship
exam,
which
becomes
her
key
character
goal.
A
loner
by
nature,
Raya’s
studious
solitude

and
concentration
get
interrupted
by
two
childhood
friends:
Bishop
(Dwain
Murphy),
who
leads
the

local
dance
crew,
has
romantic
intentions
but
Raya
is
completely
uninterested,
believing
that
any
ties

to
this
moribund
community
will
entrap
and
destroy
her
like
her
sister.
The
other
distraction
comes

in
the
form
of
combative
classmate
Michelle
(Tre
Armstrong),
Raya’s
former
best
friend
who
is
now
a

menacing
threat.
Michelle’s
simultaneous
jealously
of
Raya’s
potential
and
disdain
for
what
she

perceives
as
assimilation
and
snobbery
leads
to
conflict
and
confrontation,
culminating
in
a
physical

brawl.

As
punishment
for
their
catfight,
Raya
is
assigned
to
be
Michelle’s
tutor,
forcing
a

reconciliation
and
introducing
the
narrative
stakes
and
point
of
entry:
step
competition
winners
can

earn
serious
money,
which
could
pay
for
Raya’s
tuition.
Michelle
invites
her
to
join
the
female
crew,

but
as
she
laments,
the
major
prize
money
always
goes
to
male
teams.
The
female
crews
have
to

scrape
by
in
a
permanently
subservient
position
and
accept
smaller
purses
despite
their
comparable

talent.
Rather
than
accept
Michelle’s
offer
and
her
gesture
of
sisterly
solidarity,
Raya
bypasses
the

invitation
in
an
act
of
self-‐interest
that
she
deems
merely
logical.
She
needs
money
for
school;
male

crews
win
the
most
money;
therefore
she
must
join
a
male
crew,
leading
to
further
dramatic
conflict.

In
addition
to
the
tensions
of
class
conflict
caused
by
upward
mobility,
Raya
now
has
to
contend
with

gendered
expectations
and
sexism.
A
survivor
at
heart,
she
takes
advantage
of
Bishop’s
fondness
for

360

her
and
convinces
him
to
let
her
join
his
male
crew
on
a
provisional
basis.
Her
undeniable
talent,

echoed
by
her
confidence,
attitude,
and
unshakeable
resolve,
impresses
the
crew,
and
the
boys
accept

her
into
the
Jamaica
Street
Junta
(JSJ).

As
an
all-‐black
narrative,
the
antagonists
in
How
She
Move
necessarily
come
from
the

community
itself,
rather
than
being
external
agents
from
the
mainstream
or
a
competing
subculture.

In
this
case,
villainy
and
immorality
are
indicated
by
a
lack
of
neighborhood
values
and
a
disdain
for

community
standards.
In
a
tight-‐knit
group
of
ex-‐patriots,
the
diasporic
community
looks
out
for
one

another
and
attempts
to
protect
its
youth
from
the
easy
lures
of
criminal
activity
and
the
potentially

dangerous
pleasures
of
hedonism.
Consequently,
the
villainous
characters
are
implicated
in
the

world
of
drugs
and
prostitution,
both
of
which
weaken
and
insidiously
destroy
the
community
from

within.
Like
all
Formula
Dance
Films,
the
specter
of
death
and
criminality
weigh
ominously
in
the

atmosphere,
despite
the
inherent
optimism
of
the
dance
numbers.
This
worldview
suggests
that

black
urban
life
is
elided
with
almost
certain
doom
if
the
youth
do
not
escape
through
higher

education
or
find
a
productive
outlet
through
dance.
In
How
She
Move,
this
concept
of
mortality
is

immediately
inlaid
with
the
sister’s
funeral,
and
the
off-‐screen
tragedy
of
her
short
life
and
drug-‐
induced
death
set
the
tone
for
danger
and
dissolution.
While
the
environment
itself
can
be
read
as
an

antagonistic
hostile
force,
the
dangers
of
street
life
are
also
embodied
by
the
character
Garvey
Gaines

(Cle
Bennett),
the
leader
of
the
reigning
step
group
and
the
film’s
arch
villain.
Although
his
exact

dealings
are
never
specified,
Garvey
is
clearly
coded
as
having
criminal
enterprises,
and
off
the
dance

floor
he
appears
to
moonlight
as
a
drug-‐dealer
and
pimp.
In
classic
Formula
Dance
fashion,
he

challenges
the
JSJ
to
compete
in
Step
Monster,
effectively
defining
the
new
narrative
stakes
and

elevating
the
eventual
third
act
competition
into
a
portentous
final
battle.
It
is
no
longer
just
about

the
prize
money—it
is
about
pride
and
reputation.

How
She
Move
has
the
requisite
disastrous
prelim
competition,
which
the
Formula
Dance
Film

uses
as
a
physical
analogue
to
interior
character
flaws
and
group
conflict.
Whatever
fissures
and

fractures
are
already
present
in
the
group,
or
whatever
the
protagonist’s
fatal
flaw
may
be,
this
set-‐
piece
will
bring
everyone’s
weaknesses
and
fears
to
the
surface,
forcing
a
moment
of
epiphany,

apology,
and
self-‐realization.
In
Stomp
the
Yard,
DJ
impulsively
breaks
rank
and
showboats
in
a

display
of
ego
and
selfishness.
His
dancing
becomes
the
expression
of
his
reckless
individuality—a

personal
failing
that
he
must
address
and
overcome
to
be
a
true
team
member.
Similarly,
in
a
nearly

identical
scene
Raya
senses
that
her
team
is
losing
in
the
prelim
and
she
commits
the
second
cardinal

sin
of
the
dance
film:
she
breaks
rank
and
performs
an
impromptu
solo.
Far
from
helping
her
team,

361

Raya’s
stunt
only
causes
resentment
and
further
dissension,
and
the
team
ejects
her
before
the
final.

In
a
now
familiar
Formula
Dance
tactic,
Raya
crosses
over
and
joins
the
enemy
crew,
essentially

making
a
deal
with
the
devil.
Although
Garvey
is
reprehensible
on
a
personal
level,
he
is
also

strategic,
and
when
the
JSJ
expels
Raya
for
her
renegade
solo
performance,
he
readily
recruits
her.
In

keeping
with
competition
dance
film
morality,
this
fraternizing
with
the
enemy
is
Raya’s
moral
nadir.

When
Garvey’s
crew
succeeds
in
the
subsequent
trials,
we
are
meant
to
understand
that
each
victory

comes
at
the
degradation
of
Raya’s
soul,
since
she
has
forsaken
her
values
for
money
and
material

return.

Raya
willfully
ignores
her
new
team’s
questionable
behavior
until
she
is
forced
to
confront

the
truth
behind
her
sister’s
death,
and
the
depth
of
Garvey’s
villainy.
Through
some
hasty
but
crucial

exposition,
we
learn
that
Garvey
provided
Raya’s
sister
with
the
drugs
that
killed
her,
had
a
sexual

relationship
with
her,
and
may
have
even
exploited
her
as
a
prostitute
in
the
sexual
economy
of
the

streets.
Garvey
displays
a
venal
callousness
as
he
clearly
only
cares
about
the
exchange
rate
of
money

and
power,
whether
on
the
dance
floor
or
in
the
bedroom.
In
his
final
scene
when
Raya
learns
the

truth
and
renounces
him,
Garvey
shows
his
street-‐hardened
cynicism
and
outlook
at
the
cheapness

of
human
life:

It
ain’t
nothing
but
business,
baby.
We
didn’t
get
here
on
angel
wings,
Raya.
Look,
I
had
mad

love
for
your
sister,
okay,
but
she
just
couldn’t
handle
the
business.
Now
you
and
me,
we’re

“do
what
we
gots
to
do”
people.

Disgusted
and
disillusioned,
Raya
leaves
Garvey’s
team
and
attempts
a
reconciliation
with
her
true

friends
in
the
JSJ.
Raya’s
rejection
of
Garvey
is
also
the
symbolic
rejection
of
both
her
sister’s

regrettably
wasted
life
and
her
own
myopic
selfishness.
Now
that
she
has
seen
the
end
result
of
a
life

driven
by
personal
gain,
Raya
completely
separates
herself
from
that
path.
With
the
renewed
values

of
community
loyalty,
she
embraces
a
life
dedicated
to
family,
friends,
and
true
teamwork.

Once
Raya

realizes
her
errors,
she
humbles
herself
in
contrition
and
the
group
accepts
her
back
into
the
fold,

just
in
time
to
choreograph
a
new
and
innovative
piece.
Their
combination
of
unity
and
artistry
leads

to
victory
in
the
step
competition,
and
the
film
ends
with
a
celebratory
freeze
frame.

362

Scholastics
and
Steppin’

In
keeping
with
the
tradition
of
betterment,
How
She
Move
is
one
of
the
most
overt
and

strident
proponents
of
education,
allowing
the
scholastic
elements
to
initially
supersede
the
dance

elements
on
both
a
visual
and
narrative
level.
The
all-‐black
back-‐to-‐school
films
stress
individual

accountability,
community
ties,
and
black
pride,
all
while
insisting
that
upward
mobility
and

respectability
do
not
have
to
come
at
the
cost
of
one’s
black
roots
and
identity.
The
black

protagonists
can
remain
true
to
the
‘hood
while
pursuing
a
future;
they
can
dance
and
get
a
college

degree;
both
sides
of
their
life
can
coexist
within
reason
and
with
certain
limitations.
However,

because
these
are
dance
films,
the
dance
portion
will
inevitably
outweigh
the
academic
in
terms
of

screen
time
and
visual
appeal.
How
She
Move
is
no
exception,
and
the
aggression
and
vigor
of
step

dancing
is
enticingly
captured,
from
powerful
close-‐ups
of
sweaty
furrowed
brows,
to
the
percussive

syncopated
stomp
of
hard-‐soled
boots
against
a
cement
floor.
However,
it
is
also
the
rare
film
in
the

Formula
Dance
cycle
to
fully
foreground
the
academic
storyline,
conferring
it
with
narrative

significance
equal
to
the
dance
plot.
Unlike
every
other
competition
film
that
starts
with
a
rousing

opening
battle,
the
first
dance
scene
in
How
She
Move
comes
relatively
late
in
the
story.
In
fact,
the

first
“battle”
is
an
intellectual
one.
On
the
first
day
of
school,
a
math
teacher
intentionally
incites

rivalry
by
summoning
Raya
and
Michelle
to
the
chalkboard
and
forcing
them
into
a
mathematical

race
to
solve
the
quadratic
equation,
“Is
this
what
a
$20,000
education
gets
you?
A
tying
score
with

an
18-‐year-‐old
who
failed
this
class
twice?”
Raya
wins
and
Michelle
is
humiliated.
In
tone
and
import,

this
math
battle
serves
exactly
the
same
function
that
a
typical
dance
battle
would:
two
rivals
with
a

competitive
history
challenge
each
other
for
dominance,
putting
their
reputation
and
street

credibility
on
the
line;
one
is
victorious,
the
other
is
shamed.
The
fact
that
the
first
altercation

happens
to
be
a
scholastic
competition
is
highly
significant
and
indicative
of
the
film’s
overall

outlook.

Continuing
the
theme
and
narrative
thread
of
academic
achievement,
Raya
is
consumed
with

preparing
for
the
All
Important
Exam,
which
is
positioned
as
tantamount
to
the
All
Important
Dance

Competition.
Ordinarily,
the
dancing
would
take
precedence,
but
here
the
scholarship
test
is
equally

important
and
will
impact
the
rest
of
the
story,
especially
because
of
the
script’s
intentional

prolongation
of
suspense.
In
a
test-‐taking
montage,
Raya
seems
to
struggle
and
run
out
of
time;
she

appears
defeated
and
is
convinced
that
she
has
ruined
her
chances.
Right
up
until
the
final
scenes,
we

are
meant
to
believe
that
Raya
really
did
fail
the
exam,
leaving
the
dance
competition
and
prize

money
as
her
only
recourse
for
salvation.
In
the
last
ten
minutes
of
the
film,
Raya’s
mother
brings
the

363

exam
results
with
a
ninety-‐two
percent
score,
giving
Raya
a
legitimate
escape
from
the
ghetto
life
she

dreads
and
a
plausible
excuse
to
bow
out
of
the
competition.
Instead,
the
good
news
serves
to

catalyze
Raya’s
new
resolve
and
understanding,
allowing
her
to
articulate
the
moral
and
thematic

root
of
the
film,
which
she
overtly
states,
“Mommy,
this
is
me.
And
just
because
I’m
moving
ahead

doesn’t
mean
I
have
to
leave
everything
behind.
It’s
all
me:
school,
step,
you,
all
of
it.”

Gender
and
Masculinization
in
the
Margins

While
fully
adhering
to
the
Formula
Dance
prototype
in
many
respects,
How
She
Move
also

represents
a
different
iteration
with
new
elements
not
present
in
any
other
film,
including
the

desexualization—even
masculinization—of
the
female
lead.
This
is
the
polar
opposite
of
the
film

Honey
(addressed
in
the
next
chapter)
which
is
entirely
predicated
on
flaunting
the
nubile
sexuality

of
actress
Jessica
Alba.
In
contrast,
Rutina
Wesley’s
Raya
is
determinedly
unfeminine,
contributing
to

the
intriguing
if
problematic
representations
of
gender
in
this
film,
which
also
happens
to
be
the
only

Formula
Dance
Film
with
a
black
female
lead.

A
central
point
of
contention
in
How
She
Move
is
that

step
dance
is
an
exclusionary
boys
club,
resulting
in
an
interesting
thematic
development
involving

the
further
marginalization
and
segregation
of
an
already
marginalized
group
i.e.
black
men

subjugating
black
women.
This
is
the
peculiar
privilege
of
the
all-‐black
narrative:
without
the
added

concern
of
addressing
the
racial
divide
of
black
vs.
white,
the
scope
narrows
to
different
types
of

black
people,
now
divided
by
class
(or
class
aspiration),
and
the
expected
behavioral
codes
of
gender.

The
two
most
persecuted
underdogs
in
the
entire
film
are
Raya
herself,
underestimated
and

dismissed
as
a
woman,
and
Bishop’s
bookish,
slightly
effete
younger
brother
Quake
(Brennan

Gademans),
who
is
relentlessly
mocked
for
his
intellectual
abilities
and
docile
personality.
He
is

coded
by
his
geek-‐chic
Malcolm
X
glasses,
and
his
predilection
for
ascots,
argyle,
and
Tolstoy.
To

underscore
his
characterization,
the
screenplay
includes
exchanges
between
Raya
and
Quake
to

delineate
their
intelligence
and
cultural
literacy,
which
both
elevate
and
isolate
them.
When
Raya

first
meets
Quake,
he
is
nose-‐deep
in
Anna
Karenina
and
she
asks,
“They
have
ninth
graders
reading

Tolstoy?”
to
which
he
archly
replies,
“No
they
have
ninth
graders
reading
Death
of
a
Salesman.
I’m

reading
Tolstoy,”
referencing
both
his
sense
of
academic
sophistication
and
his
contempt
for
what
he

perceives
as
the
inferior
education
in
public
school.
Similarly,
he
makes
a
dig
at
middlebrow
culture

by
mocking
Raya
for
reading
Rebecca,
“I
would
have
expected
more
from
you.”

Raya
and
Quake
have
their
own
value
system
and
taste
culture
that
allow
them
to
scorn
what

they
deem
facile
or
philistine.
However,
their
in-‐jokes
and
intellectual
superiority
have
a
limited

influence-‐-‐no
one
else
in
their
world
cares
about
their
academic
achievement,
and
it
does
not
assure

364

them
admission
into
the
popular
crowd.
If
anything,
it
marks
them
as
pariahs
and
furthers
their

alienation.
Quake’s
inherently
studious
and
analytical
nature
inspires
him
to
keep
a
detailed

notebook
of
dance
moves,
and
a
quick
insert
shot
reveals
an
intensely
meticulous
series
of
sketches

and
notations
like
a
combination
of
storyboard
and
symphonic
score.
This
playbook
and
Quake’s

ingenuity
end
up
leading
the
crew
to
victory
with
an
inventive
new
number.

Quake
is
vindicated,
but

importantly
it
is
only
when
his
assiduous
personality
and
intellect
benefit
the
dance
world
that
he
is

finally
validated
as
a
person.
There
is
the
distinct
impression
that
had
he
not
come
to
the
rescue
with

his
choreography,
Quake
would
have
continued
to
be
a
downtrodden
outcast.

Raya’s
consistent
masculinization
poses
another
set
of
possibly
irresolvable
issues.
On
the

one
hand,
it
is
laudable
that
How
She
Move
does
not
engage
in
the
standard
and
frequently
degrading

objectification
of
the
dancing
female
form.
On
the
other
hand,
in
order
to
gain
access
to
a
restrictive

male
world,
Raya
in
effect
must
become
male,
or
rather
her
androgyny
and
tomboy
looks
are
what

allow
her
to
infiltrate
and
cross
the
supposedly
impenetrable
gender
divide.
Were
Raya
to
embody

the
standard
traits
of
the
feminine
binary—whether
that
be
glamorous
beauty
or
acquiescent

passivity—there
is
no
question
that
the
crew
would
instantly
reject
her
as
an
equal.
Instead,
she
is

the
antithesis
of
the
video
vixen
that
the
Formula
Dance
Film
and
music
industry
eagerly
showcase,

as
Nicole
Fleetwood
thoroughly
inventories
in
Troubling
Vision:

The
commonly
used
fish-‐eye
lens
of
many
videos
that
emerged
in
the
mid-‐1990s-‐-‐mid-‐
2000s
frames
body
parts:
large
butts
accessorized
in
lingerie,
shiny
legs,
navels,
cleavage;

faces
are
often
excluded
or
blurred.
The
dance,
too,
is
excessive.
They
bend
over
and
fully

expose
their
buttocks
to
the
camera.
Their
fleshy
thighs
and
jiggly
buttocks
captivate
the

camera.
They
are
autoerotic,
driving
themselves
to
inappropriate
levels
of
ecstasy.
They

appear
in
various
manifestations
of
excess
flesh
surrounding
the
iconic
male
rapper.
74

Throughout
the
film
Raya
is
conservatively
dressed,
either
covered
up
in
practical
layers
of
parkas

and
pea
coats
to
protect
against
the
Ontario
chill,
or
clad
in
baggy
sweats,
cargo
pants,
and
industrial

boots.
She
constantly
sports
a
knit
hat,
which
is
synonymous
with
the
street
style
of
Rastafarian
men,

and
even
when
she
shows
her
stomach
it
is
only
to
display
her
hardened
musculature.
Unlike
a

“video
ho,”
Raya’s
bare
midriff
is
not
accentuated
by
showing
the
curves
of
her
hips,
booty,
and

cleavage—the
rest
of
her
body
is
completely
covered.
The
camera
does
not
objectify
and
fixate
her
in

the
traditional
sense
of
a
sexualized
male
gaze;
rather,
when
it
explores
her
body
or
pushes
in
for
a

close-‐up,
the
camera
highlights
the
strain
and
effort
of
her
dancing,
or
the
fear,
anger,
and

74

Nicole
Fleetwood,
Troubling
Vision:
Performance,
Visuality
and
Blackness.
(Chicago,

University
of
Chicago
Press,
2011),133.

365

determination
in
her
face.
The
typical
hip-‐hop
dancing
female
adopts
a
come-‐hither
expression
with

heavy-‐lidded
eyes
and
suggestively
parted,
glossy
lips.
By
contrast,
Raya’s
mouth
is
always
firmly

closed
while
dancing,
giving
her
a
scowling,
threatening
aspect
and
she
even
snarls
with
exertion
and

the
ferocity
of
competition.
Nothing
about
Raya
is
soft
or
inviting
or
even
especially
attractive
in
the

traditional
sense
of
females
on
screen.
She
is
hard
and
tough,
and
the
camera
allows
her
be
so.

Raya
wears
no
makeup
and
her
hair
is
secured
in
long
braids
called
“individuals.”
While
this

costuming
decision
may
go
unnoticed
by
some
audience
members,
a
black
audience
would
be
highly

sensitive
to
and
cognizant
of
hair
styling
decisions,
and
it
is
significant
that
Raya
does
not
have

chemically
processed
hair.
Straightened
hair,
extensions,
or
weaves
would
have
given
Wesley
the

signature
flowing
locks
equated
with
black
female
performers
(Beyonce
et
al.).
Instead
she
has

pragmatic,
low
maintenance
braids,
which
in
some
circles
may
be
decried
as
being
“country,”

“ghetto,”
or
“ratchet.”
While
Jessica
Alba’s
bi-‐racial
character
in
Honey
swings
her
shiny
mane
like
a

provocative
shampoo
commercial,
Raya’s
hair
and
hairstyle
simply
exist
for
the
ersatz
function
of

keeping
her
hair
out
of
her
face,
contributing
to
her
no-‐nonsense
characterization.
This
physical

austerity
also
extends
to
her
interaction
with
men,
as
she
is
straightforward
and
continually
rebuffs

romantic
advances.
Raya
is
never
seen
as
flirtatious,
love-‐lorn,
or
in
any
way
discomposed
by
men
in

a
sexual
context—she
is
simply
too
focused
and
too
driven.
Raya’s
only
concern
in
dealing
with
men

is
to
fight
for
equality
on
the
dance
floor.

The
rigid
gender
binaries
in
How
She
Move
are
likewise
reinforced
by
the
depictions
of
the

other
dance
crews
and
their
environments.
The
primary
backdrop
for
the
drama
and
dancing
is
a

chop-‐shop
car
garage—a
highly
masculine
space
and
the
bastion
of
the
working-‐class
male.
The
very

aggressive
and
militaristic
nature
of
step
dancing
itself
works
in
tandem
with
this
harsh,
metallic

backdrop
to
create
a
sense
of
male
dominance.
The
dance
crew’s
name
is
also
relevant:
Jamaica

Street
Junta
is
a
bold
declaration
of
both
their
ethnic
pride
and
their
unbridled
aggression,
equating

themselves
to
a
guerilla
military
group
seizing
power
after
a
coup.
The
aggregate
effect
of
their

demeanor,
dress,
and
setting
creates
a
feral,
streetwise,
and
above
all
masculine
presence.
The
JSJ
is

fiercely
clannish
and
they
adopt
a
thug-‐like
swagger
with
such
overwhelming
machismo
that
it
seems

inconceivable
that
they
would
tolerate
a
female
incursion.
Consequently,
Raya’s
gender
should

technically
preclude
her
from
participation
and
yet
she
mimics
the
men
in
her
deportment
and

appearance.
While
it
is
refreshing
that
Raya
is
not
blatantly
sexualized,
it
is
also
disheartening
that

the
only
way
she
can
gain
entrance
to
the
male
dance
crews
(and
thus
gain
access
to
better
publicity

and
greater
financial
reward)
is
to
become
fully
masculinized.
While
there
is
no
suggestion
that
Raya

366

is
sacrificing
her
intrinsically
girly
self
(she
does
not
appear
to
have
one),
there
is
still
an
element
of

drag
or
“passing”
at
play.
Rather
than
showcasing
the
novelty
of
having
one
girl
in
an
all-‐male
crew—
which
could
have
been
achieved
by
highlighting
her
feminine
assets
through
hair
and
costuming—
Raya
is
dressed
identically
to
the
other
men
during
their
performances
in
an
act
of
assimilation
that

rejects
her
gender.
Becoming
a
boy
seems
to
be
the
only
option
for
a
woman
to
secure
the
spotlight

and
earn
real
money.

Conversely,
the
female
crews
that
Raya
deigns
to
join
are
constructed
along
equally
rigid

lines
in
the
gender
binary,
fulfilling
the
habituated
expectation
of
hip-‐hop
divas.
Like
their
male

counterparts,
the
crew
names
are
pointed
and
indicative
of
their
relative
power
position.
Michelle

belongs
to
a
crew
called
The
Fem
Phatals,
which
is
a
winking
urban
play
on
words
that
references

both
the
femme
fatale
of
film
noir,
and
the
slang
phenomenon
in
hip-‐hop
culture
where
“ph”
replaces

“f”
in
the
word
“phat.”
While
there
is
no
definitive
etymology,
“phat”
is
widely
understood
to
be
a

positive
compliment
meaning
that
someone
is
cool,
sexy,
skilled,
etc.
The
word
is
synonymous
with

black
culture
and
the
name
“Fem
Phatal,”
blends
black
culture
with
the
iconography
of
crime
fiction,

creating
a
pastiche
that
alludes
to
the
back-‐alley
appeal
of
these
dancing
seductresses.
Not

surprisingly,
the
Fem
Phatal
ladies
embody
every
stereotype
and
expectation
about
black
female

dancers:
they
are
highly
sexualized
in
revealing
costumes
that
border
on
stripper
gear,
with
heavily

stylized
makeup
and
long,
flowing,
chemically
processed
hair.
In
one
scene,
they
wear
skintight
low-‐
rider
jeans
and
gold
lame
crop
tops,
resembling
Laker
Girls
in
form
and
function
i.e.
highly

sexualized,
dancing
eye-‐candy.
The
provocative
image
they
project
also
extends
to
the
choreography

and
dancing
style.
While
they
engage
in
traditional
step
(the
syncopated
rhythms
of
clapping
and

stomping)
they
also
incorporate
more
traditionally
feminine
moves
like
body
rolls,
booty
pops,
and

other
undulating
types
of
motion
that
highlight
their
curvature
and
sexuality.
This
sultry
display
gets

appreciative
whoops
from
the
crowd,
but
in
contrast,
the
male
crews
rely
solely
on
technique,

precision,
and
bravura
feats
to
wow
the
crowd.
Whether
by
volition
or
coercion,
the
all-‐female
group

is
forced
to
rely
on
their
amplified
sexuality
to
dazzle
the
audience.
While
the
Fem
Phatal
dancers

certainly
possess
an
equivalent
talent
level,
much
of
the
crowd’s
response
is
a
direct
and
even

degrading
reaction
to
their
blatant
sexuality,
and
in
a
populist
competition
where
audience
response

determines
the
outcome,
this
is
not
insignificant.
The
crowd
essentially
positions
the
female
crews
in

a
permanent
place
of
leering
objectification
that
belies
their
actual
merit
and
labor.

Within
the
restricted
but
nonetheless
detailed
scope
of
the
all-‐black
narrative
cycle,
the

Formula
Dance
Film
genre
expands
on
its
established
boundaries
with
a
new
and
nuanced

367

perspective.
This
narrowed
focus
and
the
culturally
specific
storylines
can
be
alternatively
edifying

or
limiting:
the
characters
and
situations
may
resonate
with
a
black
audience,
while
a
non-‐black

audience
may
find
the
narrative
defamiliarizing.
However,
as
musicalized
dance
dramas,
these
films

will
always
maintain
a
certain
universal
appeal
with
their
emphasis
on
performance
and
spectacle,

which
typically
ensures
an
engaged
audience
and
positive
reception
through
the
sheer
visual
allure

of
dynamic
dancers
and
well-‐executed
choreography.
The
back-‐to-‐school
Formula
Dance
Film

consequently
occupies
a
dual
space
in
popular
cinema,
as
both
a
highly
intimate
portrait
of
the
black

community
and
its
unique
subcultures,
as
well
as
a
larger
populist
venture
that
trades
on
the
proven

entertainment
value
and
pleasure
of
watching
beautiful
young
bodies
in
motion.

368

7.
Transitions:
The
Millennial
Tragic
Mulatto

While
I
have
initially
focused
on
representations
of
blackness
and
the
cultural
dichotomy
of

white
vs.
black,
it
is
equally
important
to
examine
whiteness
as
a
concept
and
lived
reality,
since
the

two
sides
define
each
other
through
negation
and
alterity.
The
next
two
chapters
are
dedicated
to

representations
of
the
white
female
body
in
dance
film,
but
before
transitioning
to
the
occident,
it
is

crucial
to
address
a
liminal
space
between
the
traditional
black/white
racial
binary,
specifically
the

presence
and
depiction
of
mixed-‐raced
“mulatto”
characters.
Bi-‐racial
characters
function
as
a

physical
embodiment
of
the
cultural
fusion
and
racial
blending
that
mobilize
the
Formula
Dance
Film.

By
her
very
genetic
nature,
the
mulatto
is
a
literal
manifestation
of
the
initial
clash
and
eventual

coalescence
that
provides
the
cycle’s
dramatic
conflict.
While
some
films
in
the
cycle
stage
the
union

of
black
and
white
culture
via
interracial
romance
and
merging
dance
styles,
a
mulatto
character

signals
the
self-‐contained,
ultimate
consummation
of
that
union.
Historically,
the
filmic
mulatto
is

frequently
defined
by
her
internal
struggle
and
identity
crisis,
and
the
narrative
posits
that
she
is

torn
between
two
sides,
or
that
she
is
ashamed
of
her
black
side
and
tries
to
“pass”
in
white
society.

Her
dilemma
is
similar
to
the
problems
faced
by
interracial
couples
as
discussed
in
chapter
two,
but

it
is
arguably
compounded
by
the
fact
that
she
is
irrevocably
divided;
unlike
her
parents,
a
mulatto

did
not
choose
a
life
of
marked
difference,
and
the
consequences
are
outside
of
her
control.

As
discussed
in
previous
chapters,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
is
replete
with
antiquated

stereotypes
and
controlling
images
that
herald
from
plantation
days.
These
twenty-‐first

century

updates
range
from
revisionist
to
retrograde,
but
they
all
stem
from
longstanding
clichés
about

subjugated
blacks.
The
Tragic
Mulatto
has
reemerged
as
one
of
the
most
pervasive
and
resistant,
but

there
is
a
postmodern
twist—she
is
no
longer
inevitably
tragic,
though
she
is
still
undeniably

conflicted.
Instead,
her
genealogy
becomes
coded
as
enticing
and
desirable,
in
tandem
with
the

general
celebration
of
multiethnic
exoticism
that
marks
the
millennial
attitude
towards
race.
Now

that
the
look
of
mixed-‐race
women
has
become
fashionable,
highly
visible,
and
above
all
marketable,

the
mulatto
has
morphed
into
a
figure
of
intrigue
and
mystique,
rather
than
automatic
melodrama.

To
serve
as
a
transition
between
the
all-‐black
dance
narratives
and
the
dance
films
with
white
lead

characters,
I
will
use
the
film
Honey
(2003)
as
a
unique
example
of
mixed-‐race
representation.
Honey

is
the
only
film
in
the
cycle
with
an
explicitly
bi-‐racial
lead
character,
and
her
physical
body
becomes

the
new
contested
terrain
for
the
Formula
Dance
culture
clash.

369

Brown
Sugar
and
Spice:
Eroticized
Ethnicity
in
Honey

The
film
poster
said
it
all:
Jessica
Alba
captured
in
frozen
motion,
with
a
mane
of
shiny

caramel
hair
swept
aside
by
the
movement
of
her
dancing.
Her
much
publicized
abs
are
shamelessly

flaunted
in
a
black
crop-‐top,
and
the
title
Honey
is
stamped
across
her
thighs.
The
poster
supplied
all

the
needed
information
for
this
2003
release:
this
is
a
film
about
dance,
or
more
specifically
about
a

racialized
female
dancing
body.
Based
solely
on
the
poster,
it
is
not
yet
clear
which
race,
but
she
is

certainly
not
white,
invoking
an
entire
set
of
attendant
assumptions
and
essentialist
beliefs
before
we

even
watch
the
film.
The
poster
also
suggests
that
in
addition
to
race,
this
film
is
about
the

objectification
and
commodification
of
the
female
body.
As
an
actress,
Alba
is
known
more
for
her

svelte
figure
and
sexy
roles
than
her
acting
ability,
and
her
celebrated
physique
was
deliberately

used
as
the
sole
promotional
device
for
the
film,
as
if
anticipating
this
poster’s
induction
into
the

pantheon
of
teenage
boy
fantasies.
In
this
one
image,
we
understand
that
Honey
will
be
about
dance

on
a
diegetic
level
and
about
race
on
an
ideological
level.
The
film
itself,
a
tolerable
work
at
best,
is

the
culmination
of
longstanding
cinematic
representations
of
eroticized
female
minorities
and
blacks

as
entertainers.

Making
his
feature
film
directorial
debut,
Bille
Woodruff
was
already
an
established
music

video
director
at
the
time
of
Honey’s
production,
working
with
prominent
artists
like
Toni
Braxton,

Britney
Spears,
and
The
Backstreet
Boys.
Like
many
other
directors
in
the
Formula
Dance
fraternity,

Woodruff’s
experience,
training,
and
visual
aesthetic
come
directly
from
the
music
industry
and
the

specialized
format
and
properties
of
the
video
world.
Thoroughly
steeped
in
the
hip-‐hop
and
R&B

environment,
Woodruff
easily
parlays
his
expertise
into
a
narrative
about
music
video
production

and
choreography,
so
accordingly,
the
dance
sequences
and
behind-‐the-‐scenes
set-‐pieces
are
the

most
effective
and
stylish.
However,
as
with
all
Formula
Dance
Films,
the
acting
and
dialogue
in

Honey
are
perfunctory
and
largely
supplemental
to
the
spectacle.
As
expected
for
a
new
release
in

this
cycle,
the
critics’
reviews
generally
praised
the
dancing
while
deriding
the
trite
predictability
of

the
storyline.
Seemingly
impervious
to
the
negative
reviews
(another
keynote
of
the
genre
on
the

whole),
Honey
still
placed
number
two
at
the
box
office
on
its
opening
weekend
75
,
likely
propelled
by

the
star
power
and
appeal
of
Jessica
Alba
and
her
devoted
male
fan
base.

75

Box
Office
Mojo,
http://boxofficemojo.com
(accessed
August
23,
2012).

370

Given
its
identical
narrative
conventions,
Honey
qualifies
as
a
quintessential
Formula
Dance

Film,
including
the
dramatized
culture
clash
and
romantic
entanglements
resolved
through
the

spectacle
of
dance.
However,
the
film
also
introduces
distinctive
elements
to
the
cycle.
Among
its

contemporaries,
Honey
is
unique
in
that
it
arguably
boasts
the
biggest
movie
star—Jessica
Alba’s

name
and
image
was
enough
to
furnish
and
sustain
the
entire
ad
campaign.
This
is
a
major
departure

from
the
typical
Formula
Dance
Film
with
its
first-‐time
actors,
whereas
Alba
was
already
an

established
starlet
at
the
time
of
release.
Honey
also
stands
out
in
that
the
oppositional
clash
of
black

and
white
is
quite
literally
embodied
in
the
lead
character,
making
her
the
only
mixed-‐race
archetype

in
the
entire
cycle.
By
the
third
scene,
we
learn
that
Honey
is
half
black
and
half
white,
and
this

pointed
construction
ultimately
mobilizes
the
entire
ideology
of
this
schizophrenic
film,
which

alternately
tries
to
make
social
commentary
while
reverting
to
the
sexualized
glorification
of
Alba’s

body.
This
imagery
is
weighted
by
the
mythology
of
the
Tragic
Mulatto
and
amplified
by
the
sex-‐pot

extratextual
persona
of
the
film’s
star.
Jessica
Alba’s
actual
ethnic
identity—a
mixed-‐raced
woman

primarily
classified
as
Latina—contributes
yet
another
layer
to
the
fraught
and
ambivalent
portrait

of
a
racialized
dancing
body.
Despite
its
facile
trappings,
Honey
represents
a
surprisingly
complex

text
that
attempts
to
address
and
negotiate
issues
of
authenticity,
cultural
appropriation,
and

commodified
female
sexuality.
These
issues
are
evident
on
a
narrative
level
and
suggest
a
certain

progressive
approach,
but
the
potential
empowerment
is
tempered
by
the
concurrent
exploitation
of

Alba’s
exotic
sex
appeal,
which
relies
on
entrenched
assumptions
about
race
and
performance.

Largely
forgotten
and
critically
unremarkable,
the
provocative
poster
remains
the
film’s
chief
legacy,

and
yet
it
is
worth
returning
to
and
assessing
Honey
as
one
of
the
more
unintentionally
ambitious

contributions
to
the
Formula
Dance
cycle.

A
Dusky
Beauty:
The
Tragic
Mulatto
as
Historical
Model

Before
analyzing
the
film
and
its
portrayals
of
bi-‐racial
identity,
it
is
necessary
to
revisit
the

longstanding
trope
of
the
Tragic
Mulatto,
whose
perennial
abjection
has
provided
fodder
for

cinematic
and
literary
representations
of
persecuted
black
femininity.
With
antecedents
originating

during
slavery,
continuing
into
turn-‐of-‐the
century
novels,
and
remerging
in
film,
the
Tragic
Mulatto

is
a
controlling
image
that
coexists
along
the
equally
resilient
stereotypes
of
the
Buck,
the
Coon,
and

the
Mammy.
Like
these
other
denigrating
icons,
the
mulatto
has
been
employed
to
define
and

ultimately
fix
certain
people
in
a
position
of
permanent
subjugation.
As
Donald
Bogle
summarizes
in

his
famous
taxonomy,
the
Tragic
Mulatto
is
“made
likable—even
sympathetic
(because
of
her
white

blood,
no
doubt)—and
the
audience
believes
that
the
girl’s
life
could
have
been
productive
and
happy

371

had
she
not
been
a
victim
of
divided
racial
inheritance.”
76

As
with
other
black
caricatures,
the

mulatto
is
defined
by
a
set
of
visual
and
behavioral
codes:
the
“high
yeller”
heroine
is
always

attractive
(usually
based
on
normative
white
standards
of
beauty)
and
her
light
or
“yellow”
skin
is

the
most
tangible
and
constitutive
of
her
traits.
Her
skin
color
marks
her
borderline
status
as
the

direct
product
of
transgressive
sexuality,
namely
miscegenation.
This
black
and
white
coupling
is

most
often
depicted
as
a
sexual
relationship
between
a
white
male
and
a
black
female
in
a
position
of

servitude.
The
result
is
a
child
whose
light
skin
signifies
a
lifelong
burden.
Light
skin
is
not
only
a

visible
marker
of
the
racial
“contamination”
that
stigmatizes
her
externally
for
public
scrutiny
and

judgment,
but
it
also—according
to
the
mythology
of
the
trope—engenders

internal
conflicts
and

contradictions.
She
cannot
happily
exist
in
either
world,
and
she
may
face
censure,
rejection,
and

hostility
from
both
whites
and
blacks.
Depending
on
the
fairness
of
her
complexion,
the
high
yeller

girl
can
attempt
to
integrate
with
and
blend
into
white
society
in
the
popular
“passing”
narrative,

which
typically
involves
romantic
complications
and
impossible
doomed
love
with
a
white
man,

providing
the
“tragic”
part
of
her
convention
that
often
results
in
self-‐sacrificing
death.

The
mulatto’s
sexuality,
or
repression
thereof
is
particularly
interesting:
while
her
body
is
a

site
of
erotic
desire
(by
both
black
and
white
men),
she
herself
is
rarely
wonton
or
licentious.
In

contrast
to
the
Jezebel
figure
who
is
defined
by
her
primal,
even
bestial
hypersexuality,
the
mulatto

tends
to
be
acted
upon,
rather
than
being
a
desiring
subject
herself.
She
may
often
be
somewhat

reticent,
shy,
and
demure,
rather
than
overt,
promiscuous,
or
suggestive.
Of
course
her
very
presence

is
laced
with
promises
of
the
erotic,
elided
with
the
historical
reality
of
the
“fancy
trade”
and

octoroon
balls
that
catered
to
white
male
desire
for
dusky,
exotic
concubinage.
However
as
a

character
type,
she
is
generally
not
sexually
aggressive,
although
her
appealing
physical

characteristics
may
invite
sexual
advance
and
subsequent
reprobation.
This
attraction-‐rejection

dynamic
is
typical
in
the
repressive
conception
and
reception
of
black
female
sexuality,
and
whether

the
black
woman
is
passive
or
active,
there
is
inevitably
external
condemnation,
as
she
is
made

culpable
and
receives
blame.
In
other
words,
racist/sexist
discourse
blames
the
victim
through

implications
that
she
is
libidinous
and
“deserved”
it:

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…Excess
flesh
performances
in

76

Donald
Bogle,
Toms,
Coons,
Mulattoes,
Mammies,
and
Bucks:
An
Interpretive
History
of

Blacks
in
American
Films.
3
rd

ed.
(New
York:
Continuum,
1994),
9.

372

mass
culture
threaten
white
reproductivity
through
its
invocation
of
miscegenation
rooted

in
historical
rape
of
black
women,
as
well
as
contemporary
fantasies
and
practices
of

interracial
sex.
77

This
distinction
and
paradox
(sweet
versus
sexy)
will
become
important
in
Honey,
as
a
twenty-‐first

century
reemergence
of
the
Mulatto
trope.
The
film
insistently
reassures
us
that
Honey
is
chaste
and

moral,
but
that
her
physicality
tempts
men
beyond
rationality,
causing
them
to
automatically
ascribe

her
body
with
a
sexual
availability
and
invitation.

Although
the
Tragic
Mulatto
is
arguably
not
as
offensive
a
stereotypic
representation
as
the

oafish
Coon,
the
threatening
Buck,
or
the
portly
Mammy,
this
is
only
a
nominal
difference.
While
she

is
physically
attractive
and
desirable
(unlike
some
of
her
counterparts),
the
Mulatto
sufferers
from
a

more
insidious
type
of
social
and
psychological
control
in
that
she
is
figured
as
a
symbol
of

contamination,
intrinsically
flawed
and
damaged.
She
is
an
aberration
to
the
natural
order
who
must

be
duly
punished
or
eradicated,
which
is
a
particularly
injurious
fate
since
her
conception
was

outside
of
her
control
and
often
resulted
from
the
forced
sexual
advances
of
a
white
man
against
a

subordinate
black
woman.
Because
she
is
the
product
of
supposedly
impure
racial
mixing,
the

Mulatto
is
frequently
pathologized
and
framed
in
terms
of
inherent
illness,
whether
mental

deterioration
or
physical
fragility.

Accordingly,
the
character
Honey
can
be
read
as
a
postmodern
Tragic
Mulatto
with
topical

accommodations
for
our
politically
correct
age.
Instead
of
signifying
a
potentially
dangerous
and

degenerative
mixture,
today’s
bi-‐racial
female
is
prized
for
her
looks
and
fluid
status,
although
this
is

merely
an
inversion
of
values
determined
by
a
commodity
market,
which
Caroline
A.
Streeter

acknowledges
in
her
work
on
female
celebrities
and
postmodern
passing:

Representations
of
these
women
indicate
the
mulatto/a
has
not
been
displaced.
Rather,

s/he
embodies
a
racialized
dichotomy
that
has
morphed
to
accommodate
new
historical

conditions.
The
compelling
rise
of
black
popular
culture
in
the
1980s
and
1900s
virtually

inverted
the
racial
imperative
that
historically
confronted
the
mulatto/a.
Whereas
the

socioeconomic
advantages
of
whiteness
have
not
changed
dramatically,
blackness
as

cultural
capital
has
achieved
a
status
of
desirability
that,
though
comparable
to
its
position

in
periods
such
as
the
Jazz
Age,
has
an
unprecedented
reach,
nationally
and
globally…the

marketing
of
hybrid
bodies
as
popular
culture
icons
becomes
synonymous
with
the

commodification
of
miscegenation—a
conceptual
negotiation
of
racial
difference
through

sexual
desire…The
racially
mixed
female
body
becomes
symbolic
of
both
illicit
sex
and
the

77

Nicole
Fleetwood,
Troubling
Vision:
Performance,
Visuality
and
Blackness.
(Chicago,

University
of
Chicago
Press,
2011),
131.

373

incitement
to
an
apparently
transgressive
heterosexuality,
quickly
recuperated
and

normalized
through
processes
of
desire,
spectacle,
and
commodity.
78

Given
America’s
current
multicultural
mentality,
today’s
Mulatto
won’t
necessarily
have
a
tragic
end,

but
the
mechanics
of
the
story
are
the
same:
she
is
desired
and
pursued
by
both
races,
as
the
white

male
exoticizes
her
while
the
black
male
tries
to
repatriate
her
for
his
own
side.
Within
the
film,
the

white
suitor
takes
the
form
of
Honey’s
music
producer
boss
Michael
Ellis
(David
Moscow)
who

assumes
that
her
professional
allegiance
to
him
equates
to
sexual
ownership.
The
territorial
black

male
is
represented
by
local
barber
and
baller
Chaz
(Mekhi
Phifer),
who
also
seeks
to
control
Honey

by
attempting
to
keep
her
in
the
old
neighborhood
and
far
away
from
the
uppity
Manhattan
high
life.

Although
Honey’s
physicality
makes
her
instantly
covetable,
the
film’s
narrative
asserts
that
she
is
far

more
interested
in
protecting
and
shepherding
the
neighborhood
youth,
and
that
no
sexual
liaison

could
deter
her
from
that
mission.
In
an
interesting
historical
parallel,
the
character
Honey’s

commitment
to
her
community
and
to
urban
uplift
directly
branches
from
nineteenth-‐century

literary
representations
of
the
Mulatto.
In
these
texts,
the
virtuous
and
altruistic
Mulatto
serves
as
a

champion
for
her
fully
black
compatriots
who
cannot
seem
to
help
themselves:

With
refined
and
sensitive
natures,
tainted
only
by
a
drop
of
Negro
blood,
these
women

were
symbols
of
self-‐denial
and
sacrifice;
endowed
by
their
blood
admixture
to
the
place
of

race
leaders,
they
were
required
to
carry
the
moral
condition
or
ethical
virtues
of
their
race.

The
triumph
of
these
tales,
and
their
polemic,
involves
the
tragic
mulatto
dedicating
her
life

to
the
uplift
of
her
less
fortunate,
and
darker
brethren.
79

Today’s
half-‐breed
heroine
may
not
die
or
pay
for
the
sins
of
miscegenation,
but
she
is
still

tormented,
exploited,
forced
to
choose
sides,
and
is
generally
victimized
in
a
postmodern

reincarnation
of
the
Tragic
Mulatto.
In
Honey,
the
character’s
mixed-‐race
status
and
Alba’s
own
racial

ambiguity
speak
to
the
concept
of
“in-‐betweenness”
as
explored
by
scholars
like
Patricia
Hill
Collins

and
Priscilla
Pena
Ovalle,
whom
I
will
discuss
below.

78

Caroline
A.
Streeter,
Tragic
No
More:
Mixed-Race
Women
and
the
Nexus
of
Sex
and

Celebrity
(Boston:
University
of
Massachusetts
Press,
2012),
61-‐63.

79

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

(Durham:
Duke
University
Press,
2008),
104.

374

The
Story:
Binary
Logic
and
the
Racial
Formula

In
true
Formula
Dance
Film
fashion,
Honey’s
narrative
is
rather
simplistic,
and
the
tepid

screenplay
works
through
broad
strokes
and
superficial,
digestible
characterizations.
Psychological

depth
and
complex
storylines
have
never
been
part
of
this
cycle’s
project,
and
such
concerns
would

be
antithetical
to
the
aesthetic
and
affective
purpose
of
the
FDF,
which
is
to
dazzle
with
the
glossy

spectacle
of
dance.
Consequently,
the
cycle
boasts
extended
dance
set-‐pieces
shot
in
a
highly
kinetic,

stylized
fashion
that
makes
them
almost
indistinguishable
from
music
videos,
which
is
especially

appropriate
for
Honey,
as
a
film
that
delves
into
the
music
video
industry
for
its
setting
and
storyline.

Beyond
their
visual
and
aural
stimulation,
dance
sequences
are
crucial
to
the
Formula
Dance
Film
in

that
they
often
convey
narrative,
character
development,
and
conflict
more
demonstrably
and

efficiently
than
the
stilted
scripts
could
ever
manage.
As
such,
the
central
drama
and
resolution
stem

directly
from
scenes
of
dance
rehearsal,
performance,
and
competition.

Honey
cleaves
to
the
conventions
and
iconography
that
have
become
crystallized
in
the

Formula
Dance
Film
over
the
last
decade,
but
it
also
has
unique
additions,
including
the
fact
that
it
is

actually
set
within
the
music
video
industry
(whereas
other
films
simply
borrow
the
formal

properties
of
music
videos)
and
that
the
protagonist
herself
is
bi-‐racial
and
thus
a
new
contribution.

Honey
Daniels
is
a
part-‐time
bartender,
part-‐time
video
store
clerk,
full-‐time
dancer
and
dreamer.

She
has
aspirations
of
professional
success,
but
she
is
hampered
by
economic
limitations
and
lack
of

opportunity,
and
she
makes
do
serving
the
neighborhood
by
teaching
hip-‐hop
at
the
dilapidated

Community
Center
owned
by
her
mother.
After
a
chance
encounter,
she
is
unknowingly
filmed

freestylin’
at
her
club,
and
the
footage
impresses
music
executive
Michael
Ellis
who
recruits
her
first

as
a
dancer,
then
as
a
choreographer.
Like
other
films
in
the
cycle,
Honey
offers
a
hasty
and

underdeveloped
romantic
storyline
in
addition
to
the
expected
social
problem
element,
which

involves
neighborhood
kids
who
edge
perilously
close
to
gang
life
without
Honey’s
intervention.

Honey’s
moral
dilemma
propels
the
film’s
thematics,
but
the
narrative
stakes
arise
from
the

endangered
Community
Center.
After
the
building
is
condemned
and
the
neighborhood
kids
are
left

without
a
sanctuary,
Honey
becomes
determined
to
buy
a
new
space
with
the
proceeds
from
her

accelerating
music
video
career.
However,
when
she
rebuffs
her
mentor’s
sexual
advances,
he

vindictively
blackballs
her
in
the
industry,
leaving
her
without
income
and
facing
a
looming
deadline:

she
has
thirty
days
to
come
up
with
the
rest
of
the
down
payment
for
the
new
space.
While
the
stakes

are
relatively
mild
in
comparison
to
some
of
the
more
violent
films
in
the
cycle,
the
theme
of

philanthropy
and
community
revitalization
is
genuine,
and
the
ticking
clock
is
an
effective
narrative

375

device.
In
terms
of
dance
sequences,
Honey
also
follows
the
mold
with
a
five-‐minute
opening

sequence
at
the
club,
which
is
equivalent
to
the
opening
battle
in
competition
films.
The
rest
of
the

run-‐time
is
punctuated
by
music
video
shoots
and
rehearsal
scenes
that
all
climax
in
the
Final

Performance,
in
this
case
a
benefit
show
to
raise
money
for
the
new
Community
Center.
While

Honey’s
professional
and
personal
upheavals
are
the
dramatic
core,
the
narrative
stakes
are

presented
as
strictly
altruistic;
her
material
success
and
increasing
fame
are
only
in
service
of

community
betterment
and
saving
the
kids
under
her
watchful
care.

An
early
scene
sets
up
Honey’s
character
and
the
film’s
positivist
tone
in
reductive
but

effective
terms:
she
walks
towards
the
camera
with
a
hip-‐sway
that
draws
focus
to
her
body
and

exposed
stomach.
Two
black
males
walk
in
front
of
her
and
when
one
of
them
accidentally
loses
a

wad
of
cash
from
his
back
pocket,
Honey
stoops
to
pick
up
the
money
and
return
it,
“Yo,
you
dropped

your
paper.”

He
replies
with
gratitude,
“Good
looking
out,
Honey!”
and
they
stare
at
her
admiringly

as
she
slinks
away.

Just
when
we
thought
she
was
simply
an
object
of
male
salivation,
we
discover

that
she
is
also
sweet,
honest,
and
committed
to
the
community.
Their
warm,
familiar
responses

show
us
that
Honey
is
a
recognized
and
respected
fixture
in
the
neighborhood,
not
just
a
cute
girl

made
for
cat-‐calls.
In
her
early
character
introduction,
the
film
establishes
that
the
Bronx
native
is

mixed-‐race
and
resolutely
earnest,
and
we
are
to
believe
that
her
seductive
body
belies
her
innate

innocence
and
strong
moral
code.
Significantly,
we
learn
through
exposition
that
Honey
used
to
be
a

serious
ballerina,
but
she
gave
up
ballet
for
her
current
passion
in
teaching
hip-‐hop.
This
is

particularly
significant
in
both
the
film’s
diegesis
and
its
function
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle:
ballet

and
hip-‐hop
have
always
been
positioned
in
oppositional
contrast
and
serve
as
metonyms
for
white

and
black
culture,
respectively;
the
two
dance
forms
are
inextricably
associated
with
their
culture
of

origin
and
weighted
with
attendant
meanings.
Much
of
the
narrative
content
in
other
Formula
Dance

Films
occurs
when
one
body
tries
to
assimilate
the
style
and
signifiers
of
another
race,
most
clearly
in

Save
the
Last
Dance,
where
a
white
ballerina
learns
to
be
cool
through
a
black
hip-‐hop
dancing

mentor.
In
Honey
however,
this
fixed
binary
exists
within
one
body:
she
does
ballet
and
hip-‐hop,
she

is
black
and
white,
so
by
definition
she
embodies
the
contrasts
and
schisms
that
these
films
attempt

to
foreground
and
resolve.

As
a
postmodern
Tragic
Mulatto,
Honey’s
character
not
only
has
the
sociological
pressure
of

being
bi-‐racial
in
a
still
intolerant
society,
but
she
also
bears
the
onus
of
trying
to
reconcile
two

divergent
cultures.
Although
as
the
story
progresses,
the
logic
of
the
film
maintains
that
black
culture

is
ultimately
coolest
and
the
most
“real,”
so
hip-‐hop
receives
primacy
and
validity
as
the
more

376

authentic
and
pleasurable
option.
Consequently,
the
implied
superiority
of
blackness
also
means
a

denial
of
Honey’s
“white”
side
and
its
concurrent
cultural
meanings.
This
suggests
that
for
all
its

celebratory
multicultural
rhetoric
(a
keynote
of
the
entire
cycle),
Honey’s
ethos
eventually
demands

that
the
protagonist—and
by
extension
the
viewer—must
pick
a
side.
In
other
dance
films,
ballet
and

hip-‐hop
can
usually
unite,
or
at
least
the
representatives
of
the
ballet
world
will
impress
some
of
the

rigors
of
classical
training
upon
the
improvisational
hip-‐hopper,
while
absorbing
some
of
the
B-‐boy’s

jouissance.
But
here,
ballet
is
only
mentioned,
never
seen,
and
eventually
disavowed.

By
correlation,

white
culture
as
a
whole
is
generally
abandoned.

This
cultural
divergence
is
initially
established
by
Honey’s
parents,
who
appear
in
quick

succession.
Each
plays
a
functional
role
to
enunciate
the
plot
and
central
thematic
conflict,
and
each

represents
an
obvious
proxy
for
one
race
and
culture.
Honey’s
mother,
played
by
mixed-‐race
actress

Lonette
Mckee
is
presented
as
white
or
at
least
passing.
She
is
well-‐meaning
but
apparently
short-‐
sighted,
and
her
disapproval
translates
into
an
unintentional
elitism.
Although
she
operates
a
youth

center
in
their
urban
slum,
she
still
maintains
the
trappings
of
class
bias
when
she
tells
her
daughter,

“Oh
Honey,
I
don’t
know
why
you
can’t
just
teach
ballet
at
a
nice
uptown
studio.
Hip-‐hop
can’t
take

you
the
places
ballet
can—all
that
real
dancing
training…”Although
the
dialogue
is
framed
as

maternal
concern,
the
language
directly
invokes
historical
hierarchies
of
cultural
production,
where

ballet
is
a
venerated
European
high
art,
and
hip-‐hop
is
dismissed
as
jungle
music
with
wild,

untutored
motions.
As
Gottschild
attests,
ballet
has
a
secured
position
at
the
top
of
the
dance

hierarchy,
and
other
forms-‐-‐most
notably
those
associated
with
black
popular
culture
and
street

tradition—must
jockey
for
a
subordinate
place:

Ballet
is
accorded
a
holier-‐than-‐thou
position
and,
despite
its
potential
for
change,
reserves

a
strict
attitude
about
the
look
of
the
dancing
body.
The
only
contemporary
forms
of

American
stage
dance
that
are
not
in
ballet’s
thrall
are
African
American
forms
including
hip

hop,
club
dancing,
tap,
and
the
R&B
funk
world
of
MTV
and
touring,
singing
superstars.
That

the
ballet
aesthetic,
feet,
and
more
spills
over
into
every
aspect
of
concert
dance
is
an

accepted
fact
of
life.
80

In
the
film,
a
thematic
counterargument
immediately
follows,
championed
by
Honey’s
soulful

black
father
who
supports
her
dreams
and
condones
her
choice
to
use
hip-‐hop
as
a
form
of

opportunity
and
community
outreach.
There
is
a
distinct
message
of
urban
uplift
in
operation
as

articulated
by
the
sympathetic
father,
who
comes
off
as
more
understanding,
philanthropic,
and

80

Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild,
The
Black
Dancing
Body:
A
Geography
From
Coon
To
Cool
(New

York:
Palgrave
Macmillan,
2002),
133.

377

humanist
than
his
judgmental
wife.
In
these
early
scenes,
we
are
already
primed
to
privilege
black

culture
–with
its
purported
values
of
authenticity,
warmth,
and
realness—over
white
culture,
which

will
increasingly
be
positioned
as
venal,
superficial,
and
constricting
as
the
story
continues.

The
plot
follows
a
fairly
basic
rise-‐and-‐fall
classical
narrative
that
chronicles
the
ingénue’s

initial
naiveté
followed
by
her
descent
into
the
temptations
of
fame,
signaled
by
Honey’s
induction

into
the
glamorous
but
ultimately
hollow
music
industry.
After
hitting
a
moral
low,
she
has
a

revelation
that
leads
to
an
eventual
reclamation
of
her
roots,
morals,
and
community,
“It
was

everything
I
always
wanted,
but
when
I
got
it,
it
felt
like
nothing.
Less
than
nothing.”
Throughout
this

journey,
Honey
has
to
weigh
her
desire
to
reinvigorate
her
neighborhood
by
bringing
in
much-‐
needed
funds
and
gentrification,
against
the
siren
lure
of
fame
and
money
concomitant
with
her
new

career
as
a
video
choreographer.
In
the
interim,
she
temporarily
loses
sight
of
her
origins
and
almost

succumbs
to
the
superficiality
and
commercialism
of
her
new
life,
but
given
the
film’s
Manichean

ethic,
she
eventually
recants,
refuses
the
meretricious
ease
of
Hollywood,
and
returns
to
the
‘hood.

Conveniently
however,
rapper
Missy
Elliot
(playing
herself
in
a
cameo
role)
serves
as
a
deus
ex

machina
who
demands
Honey’s
talents
and
proposes
to
work
with
her
in
the
future,
seemingly

rewarding
Honey
with
karmic
redemption.
In
one
recuperative
stroke,
the
narrative
allows
Honey
to

fully
embrace
urban
street
authenticity,
while
still
allowing
her
access
to
mainstream
success.

Alba
the
Dancer:
A
Genre
Impasse

Any
discussion
of
the
dancing
in
Honey
cannot
avoid
the
unfortunate
fact
that
Alba,
despite

her
affinity
for
physical
roles,
is
not
a
very
good
dancer,
requiring
seriously
creative
editing
and

obscuring
choreography,
combined
with
a
liberal
use
of
distracting
back-‐up
dancers.
Woodruff
is

then
reliant
on
assembling
diegetic
audiences
and
spectators
who
volubly
declare
that
Honey
is

amazing,
and
we
the
actual
audience
are
meant
to
be
convinced
of
her
talent;
otherwise
the
plot
and

its
narrative
of
meteoric
success
would
not
work.
For
example,
after
substantial
build-‐up
we
finally

see
Alba-‐as-‐Honey
cut
loose
in
the
city’s
hottest
club,
where
she
bartends
and
never
pays
a
cover

charge
simply
because
her
charisma
and
dancing
attract
patrons.
Her
best
friend
Gina
sets
up
the

moment
with
considerable
hype
when
she
boasts
about
Honey’s
talent
to
random
male
onlookers.

Accordingly,
while
Alba
gamely
tries
to
pop-‐and-‐lock
and
body
roll,
we
see
a
cadre
of
admirers

encircle
her,
some
merely
ogling
while
others
breathlessly
intone
praise.
However,
for
any
viewer

with
even
a
basic
comprehension
of
either
classical
technique
or
street
dance,
it
is
clear
that
Alba
is

mediocre
at
best.
As
such,
Alba’s
centrality
as
protagonist
necessarily
relies
on
her
physical
beauty,

given
the
fact
that
her
dancing
is
subpar
and
her
acting
prowess
is
not
especially
substantial.
In
this

378

opening
club
scene,
Woodruff
and
cinematographer
John
Leonetti
repeatedly
use
overhead
shots
and

low
camera
angles
to
give
Alba’s
basic
moves
a
sense
of
speed
and
dynamism,
while
the
more

talented
backup
dancers
who
surround
her
complete
the
illusion.

Similarly,
in
later
dance
scenes
at

the
Community
Center,
Woodruff’s
music
video
background
is
evident
in
the
frantic
editing:
the

average
shot
length
is
about
one
second
and
there
is
a
cut
on
every
motion,
both
a
concession
to
the

aesthetic
style
of
the
video
world,
and
a
method
of
concealment
and
diversion
for
the
film’s
star.
Not

a
great
actress,
and
not
a
great
dancer,
all
Alba
can
do
is
appear
and
incur
desire,
enacting
Laura

Mulvey’s
too-‐be-‐looked-‐at-‐ness
passivity
if
only
because
she
lacks
the
skill
and
mastery
to
assert

agency
in
this
role.
81

Interestingly,
this
objectified
status
in
Alba’s
performance
is
matched
by
her
on-‐
screen
character’s
continual
subjugation
to
a
capitalist
market
imperative
that
tries
to
commodify

her
and
turn
her
beloved
art
into
a
product.
Compounding
this,
the
men
who
surround
Honey
as
she

rises
in
the
industry
treat
her
as
property,
like
sexualized
chattel
with
talent
that
can
be
harnessed

and
exploited
at
their
whims
and
for
their
own
personal
gain.
In
this
sense,
Honey’s
cinematic

depiction
and
treatment
cleave
to
the
Tragic
Mulatto’s
codes
of
concubinage
and
perpetual

victimization.

Given
Alba’s
limitations,
Woodruff
and
his
production
team
wisely
surround
her
with
an

assortment
of
adorable
‘hoodrats
as
a
sort
of
postmodeen
version
of
the
Dead
End
Kids-‐-‐precocious,

talented,
and
lovable
children,
always
ready
with
a
smart-‐ass
quip
or
sentiment
of
faith.

Heading
this

coterie
is
Benny,
played
by
hip-‐hop
and
TV
star
L'il
Romeo,
who
becomes
Honey’s
wisecracking

prodigy
after
she
spots
him
riffing
in
the
alley
and
joins
in.
As
an
actor
and
a
dancer,
L’il
Romeo
has

legitimately
impressive
skills
that
help
substantiate
Honey’s
supposed
eye
for
talent,
in
addition
to

strengthening
the
film’s
emphasis
on
the
street
as
the
real
site
of
authenticity
and
creative

production.

In
their
first
encounter
scene,
Honey
admires
and
then
emulates
Benny's
moves
(“I
like

it.
Your
flava’s
hot”)
and
then
later
incorporates
them
into
her
professional
choreography,
reenacting

the
constant
cool-‐hunting
and
appropriation
in
the
music
industry,
where
new
iterations
of
street

forms
and
vernacular
dance
are
quickly
scouted,
absorbed,
and
sold
back
to
the
consumer.
Of
course

in
Honey’s
case
it
is
coded
as
an
instance
of
homage
rather
than
theft,
but
the
same
mechanisms
are

at
play.

Honey’s
interaction
with
the
kids
becomes
the
supplemental
social
problem
plotline,
as
she

attempts
to
steer
Benny
and
his
little
brother
Raymond
on
the
right
path.

The
brothers
suffer
the

81

Laura
Mulvey,
“Visual
Pleasure
and
Narrative
Cinema,”
Screen
16
(1975).

379

expected
afflictions
of
black
urban
youth:
their
absentee
mother
is
verbally
abusive
and
embodies

the
stereotypic
Welfare
Queen,
who
served
as
a
nightmarish
cautionary
tale
of
black
female

irresponsibility
in
the
Reagan
era;
the
mother’s
boyfriend
is
implicitly
one
of
many
rotating
men,
and

he
is
physically
abusive
towards
the
boys;
worst
of
all,
without
parental
guidance,
Benny
is
lured
into

the
easy
money
and
solidarity
of
gang
life,
eventually
leading
to
his
arrest
and
imprisonment
in

juvenile
hall
before
Honey
sets
him
straight.
Like
other
Formula
Dance
Films,
Honey
propagates
the

depressing
assertion
that
the
only
option
for
black
social
advancement
is
as
an
entertainer,
or

correlatively
as
an
athlete.
The
possibility
of
escaping
the
ghetto
via
education
and
a
non-‐
performative
profession
is
never
explored.

However,
this
darker
element
of
social
commentary
is

only
fleetingly
treated,
since
on
the
whole,
Honey
is
a
more
lighthearted
and
optimistic
film
than

some
of
its
predecessors.
In
fact,
Honey’s
brood
of
street
urchins
is
reminiscent
of
classical
era

Moppet
Musicals,
epitomized
by
the
Mickey
Rooney
and
Judy
Garland
cycle
at
MGM,
where
two

talented
and
wide-‐eyed
youngsters
unite
for
a
common
goal.
Even
the
final
set
piece
for
the
benefit

performance
stems
directly
from
the
Mickey-‐and-‐Judy
trope,
and
it
significantly
takes
place
in
an

abandoned
church,
which
is
a
locus
for
the
black
community.
Far
from
being
sacrilegious,
the
church

setting
reconceives
hip-‐hop
as
a
mode
of
salvation
and
regeneration:
the
proceeds
of
the
benefit
will

provide
a
safe
haven
for
the
community,
and
the
new
center
will
be
a
creative
outlet
and
bastion
of

hope
for
the
neighborhood
children.

The
major
instances
of
dance
take
place
in
local
clubs,
urban
streets,
and
the
run-‐down

Community
Center,
where
we
see
Honey
cut
loose
and
display
her
moves,
which
are
intended
to
be

fresh
and
inspiring.
Importantly,
she
demonstrates
her
skills
in
an
enclosed,
intimate
setting,
meant

strictly
for
neighborhood
(i.e.
black)
participation,
not
for
national
exposure
or
proliferation.

In

these
scenes,
space
and
they
way
space
is
coded
as
illicit
or
public
is
also
key
in
the
narrative,
and
the

sites
of
supposed
authenticity
are
all
subcultural,
obscured,
and
hidden
from
the
mainstream
view,

such
as
underground
clubs,
nocturnal
alleys,
or
decrepit
private
studios.
It
is
not
until
Honey
brings

her
dancing
into
the
mainstream
of
the
music
video
industry
that
the
critique
becomes
manifest,
as

these
once
private
subcultural
practices
get
co-‐opted
and
sold
by
commercial
corporations.
In
stark

contrast,
the
five
separate
music
video
shoots
represent
the
height
of
professional
polish.
These

sequences
can
be
interpreted
as
both
an
accurate
replica
of
video
productions,
and
a
slightly
winking

satire
of
industry
excess
and
trends,
though
given
the
director’s
affinities,
it
was
probably
meant
as

earnest
documentation.

In
Honey’s
first
music
video
shoot
for
real-‐life
artist
Jadakiss,
the
film’s
set

design
faithfully
recreates
the
futurist
look
that
was
popular
in
music
videos
in
the
early
2000s,
with

an
abstract
cubist
set
of
shining
white
and
silver
walls,
dotted
with
halogen
spotlights
and
underlit

380

Lucite
stairs.
The
backup
dancers
(including
Honey)
are
clothed
in
midriff-‐baring,
dominatrix-‐like

black
ensembles
that
display
generous
amounts
of
oiled
skin.
In
fact,
the
high-‐sheen
skin
of
video

vixens
is
so
ubiquitous
that
the
screenplay
even
gives
a
nod
to
its
creation:
in
a
brief
preparatory

scene,
Honey
stares
uncertainly
at
her
reflection
after
her
video
makeover,
and
she
rubs
baby
oil
all

over
her
limbs
to
achieve
the
look
that
is
mandatory
for
curvaceous
women
in
videos.
In
this
behind-‐
the–scenes
moment,
we
see
the
actual
production
of
sexualized
femininity,
which
could
be
a
critique

of
the
objectification
faced
by
women
dancers
in
the
industry,
or
simply
a
factual
depiction
of
the

preparation
involved
in
creating
that
spectacle.

All
the
informal
dance
sequences
are
coded
as
real,
street,
authentic
and
most
importantly

improvisational.
When
Honey
battles
with
her
rival
in
the
club,
or
playfully
throws
down
with
Benny,

it
is
all
meant
to
be
spontaneous,
exuding
from
the
innate
talent
and
effusive
expressivity
of
these

racialized
bodies
in
motion.
During
Honey’s
first
music
video
shoot,
she
becomes
a
breakout
star

precisely
because
of
her
impromptu
ability.
Dissatisfied
with
the
existing
choreography,
Michael
asks

Honey
to
step
forward
and
experiment
with
something
new,
“Why
don’t
you
pretend
you’re
in
a

club…and
the
music’s
gonna
come
on…and
I
want
you
to
move.”

She
dutifully
grabs
a
male
partner

and
extemporizes
a
riff
that
immediately
dazzles
the
crew
and
becomes
the
official
choreography.

This
is
quintessential
Formula
Dance
pastiche
in
that
the
scene
combines
the
legacy
and
tradition
of

the
classical
musical
with
a
postmodern,
urban
infused
edge.
In
the
classical
backstage
musical
of
the

1930s,
the
untried
ingénue
(Ruby
Keeler,
Eleanor
Powell,
et
al.)
would
be
given
a
chance
and

miraculously
turn
in
a
perfect,
star-‐making
performance.

The
same
archetypal
scene
is
referenced

decades
later
in
Honey,
but
hip-‐hop
has
replaced
tap,
and
the
music
video
has
supplanted
the

Broadway
show.

However,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
is
not
simply
an
update
of
the
musical
genre,
given
its

topical
emphasis
on
racial
and
cultural
divides.
Even
though
this
scene
could
have
been
envisioned

by
Busby
Berkeley,
there
are
new
elements
at
play,
including
the
privileging
of
black
street
dance

over
formal
training.
Honey
is
expected
to
nail
an
improvised
dance
sequence,
not
because
she
has
a

ballet
background,
but
because
she
is
black.
The
assumption
of
natural
talent
and
improvisation
in

these
scenes
is
simply
one
more
installment
of
the
essentializing
argument
that
blacks
are
naturally

rhythmic
and
that
hip-‐hop
has
direct
antecedents
in
African
tribal
dance
forms.
While
there
may
be

some
anthropological
credence
to
these
assertions,
this
argument
is
problematized
in
that
it

perpetuates
the
idea
of
blacks
being
somehow
intuitively
primal,
with
dancing
simply
emanating

from
their
natural,
untrammeled
bodies.
While
these
reductive
ideas
are
meant
to
have
a
positive

381

valence,
they
are
still
stereotypes
that
reinforce
racial
hierarchies.
From
a
strictly
physical
sense,

there
is
technically
no
such
things
as
exclusively
black
or
white
dance,
but
the
ideologies
remain

powerful
and
unchallenged
through
the
familiarity
and
tacit
acceptance
by
both
white
and
black

dancers:

And
in
the
end,
beyond
our
hierarchies
and
hegemonies,
there
is
no
“black
race”
or
“white

race,”
“black
dance”
or
“white
dance.”
It’s
simply
that
the
habit
of
racism
has
rendered
us

unable
to
put
the
fusion
of
American
cultural
creations
into
words
from
the
vocabulary
at

our
disposal.
Our
traditions
and
cultures
are
so
thoroughly
mixed
(and
have
been
for
ages,

beginning
with
the
intimacy
and
depth
of
contact
between
blacks
and
whites
during
the

centuries
of
American
slavery)
that
our
language
reflects
old
assumptions
and
categorical

errors.
Nevertheless,
if
one
speaks
of
“black
dance,”
that
term
predicates
the
existence
of

“white
dance,”
its
unacknowledged
counterpart…Although
the
black
dancer
remains
Other,

the
black
body
has,
through
dance,
sports,
fashion,
and
everyday
lifestyle,
become
the
last

word
in
white
desirability…
82

Within
the
frame
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
such
naturalized
claims
of
racial
suitability
and
black

improvisation
detrimentally
efface
the
reality
of
labor
and
production
that
goes
into
choreographing

hip-‐hop
scenes,
as
well
as
the
years
of
practice
and
experimentation
required
to
perfect
one’s

signature
moves
or
innovate
new
ones.
Perhaps
the
most
insidious
element
of
this
black-‐body-‐as-‐
natural
construction
is
that
while
the
talent
and
dancing
may
be
innate
and
something
that

supposedly
cannot
be
taught,
black
vernacular
dance
and
by
extension
black
culture
can
still
be

harnessed,
stolen,
marketed,
sold,
and
divested
of
its
geographic
and
social
origins.
Gottschild
speaks

to
this
asymmetric
cultural
exchange,
whereby
blacks
may
be
preemptively
excluded
from
certain

dance
forms
that
are
deemed
inappropriate
for
their
race,
but
white
cans
easily
adopt
and
adapt

black
dance
practices
without
censure
or
impediment:

No
one
assumed
that
whites
couldn’t
perform
traditionally
black
dances.
Black
forms
have

held
sway
in
defining
white
popular
entertainment
since
the
nineteenth-‐
century
minstrel

era
and
the
twentieth-‐century
Broadway
and
nightclub
periods
through
millennial

entertainments
such
as
MTV
and
the
live
message
shows
of
pop
recording
artists…In
the

popular
arena,
black
dances,
separated
from
black
bodies,
become
the
means
of
production

for
distilled
white
versions
—modestly-‐modified
imitations
that
meet
an
acceptably
white

standard
before
they
can
be
integrated
in
the
white
mainstream.
83

This
mode
of
appropriation
consumes
minority
culture
and
celebrates
superficial
difference,
while

obfuscating
the
systemic
and
institutionalized
racism
that
led
to
the
creation
of
such
subcultural

82

Gottschild,
The
Black
Dancing
Body,
8.

83

Ibid.,
104.

382

outlets
of
expression
in
the
first
place.
Although
this
struggle
for
meaning
is
not
intended
as
the

primary
message
of
Honey,
this
otherwise
trifling
film
delves-‐-‐albeit
in
a
unresolved
and
likely

unconscious
fashion—into
the
slippery
dynamics
of
race,
commerce,
and
art,
both
within
the

narrative
and
as
a
film
text.

Alba
the
Body:
A
Post-race
Male
Playground

While
Jessica
Alba’s
body
has
been
famously
flaunted
in
all
of
her
previous
movie
roles,
Honey

is
the
first
instance
where
her
racial
identity
is
foregrounded,
both
in
terms
of
her
extratextual

persona
and
within
the
film
narrative
itself,
creating
multiple
layers
of
difference
and
meaning.
Alba

has
been
most
frequently
identified
as
Latina,
although
even
that
is
complicated
and
subject
to

contextual
change.
Technically
she
is
mixed-‐race,
with
a
white
French-‐Danish
mother,
and
a
Mexican-‐
American
father.
However,
within
the
context
of
Hollywood
publicity,
she
has
found
it
profitable
to

align
with
a
Latina
image
in
order
to
create
a
finite,
comprehensible,
and
moreover
marketable

identity,
an
effort
exemplified
by
her
participation
in
Latino
events
like
image
award
shows,
or

appearing
on
Latina-‐specific
magazines
such
as
Mujer
and
Vanidades.
However,
much
like
her

character
Honey,
Alba’s
mixed-‐race
identity
actually
makes
her
a
liminal
figure
who
can
either
be

excluded
from
or
included
in
multiple
categories,
and
her
acceptance
by
and
allegiance
to
any

specific
race
is
usually
based
on
her
career
trajectory
and
the
roles
she
portrays.
Breaking
on
to
the

scene
with
the
starring
role
in
James
Cameron’s
2000
Fox
series
Dark
Angel,
Alba
was
always
figured

as
a
strong,
sexy,
action
heroine,
and
Cameron
zealously
refined
her
shape
to
match
his
conception
of

a
badass
girl
from
the
post-‐race,
post-‐apocalyptic
future.
Within
the
show,
her
vaguely
exotic

appearance
gave
her
currency
as
a
representation
of
future
polyglot
hybridity—a
future
in
which

femininity,
no
matter
how
impractical,
means
being
perpetually
clad
in
skintight
black
leather

jumpsuits
and
stilettos,
with
sensuously
flying
hair.
This
role
would
both
establish
Alba
and

permanently
fix
her
in
a
position
of
commodified
sexuality
and
amorphous,
nonthreatening
race—
just
tan
enough
to
be
intriguing
but
not
dark
enough
to
alienate
or
court
any
one
demographic
in

particular.
After
Dark
Angel,
Alba
has
played
white,
Latino,
bi-‐racial,
and
a
general
“ethnically

ambiguous”
exotic,
and
in
every
role,
her
sexuality
and
impressive
figure
are
the
main
selling
points.

Occasionally
her
ethnic
origins
are
so
completely
effaced
that
it
approaches
white-‐face

mimicry.
For
example
in
her
2004
role
as
Nancy
the
Stripper
in
Sin
City,
the
brown-‐skinned
brunette

actress
donned
a
long
blonde
wig
to
portray
the
thoroughly
Caucasian
character,
without
any

suggestion
of
her
racial
heritage.
In
an
even
more
extreme
fashion,
for
the
equally
prurient
role
of

Sue
Storm
in
The
Fantastic
Four
(2005),
in
addition
to
her
skintight
blue
jumpsuit,
Alba
wore
a
mid-‐

383

length
platinum
blonde
wig,
blue
contact
lenses,
and
her
skin
tone
was
significantly
lightened.
There

was
no
longer
any
hint
of
the
exotic
ambiguity
she
typically
trades
on—she
had
simply
become
a

white
girl,
emphasized
by
the
casting
of
white
actor
Chris
Evans
as
her
brother,
with
his
blonde
hair

and
blue
eyes.
The
very
fact
that
Alba
can
deftly
shift
from
playing
a
half-‐black
dancer
to
an
Aryan

super-‐hero
speaks
to
the
plurality
of
identities
that
can
be
afforded
women
who
manage
to
cross

visual
and
racial
borders
or
“pass.”

Alba’s
fluidity
in
casting
exemplifies
Priscilla
Pena
Ovalle’s
concept
of
in-‐betweenness
and

racial
mobility
in
Dance
and
the
Hollywood
Latina:

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.
Some
Latina

performers,
however,
can
channel
this
liminality
into
stardom
by
maneuvering
their
in–
betweenness
toward
the
more
desire
racialized
representation
of
the
period
(usually

toward
whiteness,
but
occasionally
blackness),
thus
maximizing
their
careers
in
visual

culture—a
phenomenon
I
term
“racial
mobility”
From
a
pragmatic
perspective,
in-‐
betweenness
and
racial
mobility
maximize
the
Hollywood
Latina’s
increasingly
marketable

image;
her
racially
ambiguous
look
has
become
particularly
attractive
as
the
media
industry

has
increasingly
pursued
multicultural
markets
within
and
beyond
the
United
States.
84

Ovalle
also
contends
that
the
extent
of
a
Latina
actress’
racial
mobility
can
be
largely
determined
by

the
male
lead
cast
opposite
her
i.e.
alongside
a
black
man
she
will
probably
be
coded
as
Latina,

whereas
with
a
white
love
interest
she
might
become
Italian,
white,
etc.
This
is
certainly
true
for

Alba,
who
has
almost
always
played
against
a
white
male
lead.

In
managing
her
off-‐screen
persona
in

the
press,
Alba
rarely
commits
to
one
race,
and
she
will
simply
mention
that
she
has
always
felt
like
a

non-‐white
outsider,
without
getting
into
the
specifics.

While
Alba’s
features
and
physicality
are
credible
enough
to
be
cast
as
a
bi-‐racial
woman,
one

can’t
help
but
consider
the
implications
of
casting
a
Latina
in
a
role
that
could
have
easily
gone
to
an

actress
of
true
mixed-‐race
heritage.
Rather
than
search
for
an
actress
with
both
a
legitimate
racial

background
and
dancing
technique
(though
perhaps
a
lesser
known
status),
producers
instead

traded
on
Alba’s
industry
presence,
and
in
a
concerted
effort
by
hair,
makeup,
and
costuming,
the

filmmakers
effectively
“blacken”
her,
putting
curl
and
kink
in
her
naturally
straight
hair,
keeping
her

skin
as
tan
as
possible,
and
decking
her
in
ghetto-‐fabulous
street
gear
appropriate
for
her

bartender/club
dancer
character.
Perhaps
her
best
accessory
in
the
quasi-‐blackface
process
is
the

84

Priscilla
Pena
Ovalle,
The
Dancing
Latina:
Race,
Sex,
and
Stardom
(Newark:
Rutgers

University
Press,
2011),
8.

384

casting
of
her
black
best
friend
Gina,
played
by
a
scene-‐stealing
Joy
Bryant.
Statuesque
with
solid

comic
timing,
Bryant
gives
Alba
a
much-‐needed
credibility,
and
her
urban
dialect
and
sassy
“neck-‐
rolling”
delivery
help
make
Alba
convincingly
black
through
association.
Gina
serves
as
Honey’s

outspoken
conscience
and
constantly
reminds
her
not
to
forget
her
roots,
“Look
at
Miss
Thang,
too

bougie
to
shop
at
the
bargain
store.”
This
tactic
of
racial
transference
through
strategic
casting
will

appear
again
in
the
Step
Up
franchise,
where
the
male
and
female
leads
are
all
white,
but
they

maintain
their
street
cred
by
having
black
best
friends.

It
is
worth
noting
that
the
part
of
Honey
was
originally
written
for
R&B
star
Aaliyah,
an

attractive
light-‐skinned
black
women
with
minimal
acting
experience
but
significant
dancing
talent.

However,
her
death
in
a
2001
plane
crash
put
the
production
on
hold
and
the
part
was
eventually

refashioned
and
given
to
Alba.
This
casting
decision
forcibly
recalls
the
racist
practices
of

Hollywood’s
classical
era
studio
system,
when
white
women
with
darkened
makeup
were
cast
as

mulattos
even
if
there
were
more
talented
light-‐skinned
black
actresses
available.

As
Bogle
wryly

laments,
“In
the
1950s,
the
tragic
mulatto
seemed
in
for
a
massive
resurrection,
and
a
number
of

white
actresses
had
opportunities
to
bemoan
a
mixed
fate”.
85

Most
famously
in
films
such
as
Show

Boat
(1951)
and
Pinky
(1949),
the
integral
roles
of
mulatto
women
went
to
white
actresses
Ava

Gardner
and
Jeanne
Crain,
respectively,
despite
the
fact
that
talented
actresses
like
Lena
Horne
and

Dorothy
Dandridge
could
have
easily
and
convincingly
inhabited
the
roles.

However,
Alba’s
body-‐as-‐text
is
not
merely
limited
to
racial
discourse;
her
inescapable

sexuality
tends
to
be
even
more
prominent
and
equally
fraught,
turning
her
figure
into
a
veritable

post-‐race
male
playground.
While
Alba’s
ambiguity
has
allowed
her
even
greater
racial
mobility
than

other
minority
actresses,
it
is
important
to
note
that
every
role
she
has
ever
played
is
defined
and

circumscribed
by
her
famed
sex
appeal
and
body.
No
matter
the
race,
Alba
is
not
highly
sought
for

her
acting
skills—her
body
is
the
main
selling
point,
and
her
curves
are
commodified
to
the
point
of

fetishization.
Numerous
magazine
articles
and
interviews
open
with
an
admission
that
Alba
is
known

more
for
her
body
than
her
craft,
and
they
often
chronicle
Alba’s
conflicted
experience
in
Hollywood

concerning
how
she
wants
to
grow
as
an
actress
but
is
not
taken
seriously.
In
fact,
this
theme
of
Alba-‐
as-‐misunderstood-‐sex-‐symbol
has
been
the
recurrent
content
in
all
her
written
publicity
for
the
past

decade,
employing
a
practiced
journalistic
maneuver:
the
interviewer
will
acknowledge
her
current

dearth
of
cerebral
or
challenging
roles,
state
the
obvious
about
her
physical
appeal,
and
then
proceed

85

Bogle,
Toms,
Coons,
Mulattoes,
Mammies,
and
Bucks,
191.

385

to
convince
the
reader
of
Alba’s
earnest
devotion
to
acting
and
her
desire
to
expand
her
range.
In
her

public
persona,
Alba
is
continually
buoyed
by
apologias
or
PR
petitions
claiming
that
she
actually
has

substance,
but
at
present,
all
the
protestations
have
proven
false
and
her
film
career
has
yet
to
live
up

to
those
avowals.
Many
of
these
fluff
pieces
assure
us
that
there
are
future
roles
and
projects
in
the

works,
but
to
this
day,
Alba
is
still
inescapably
synonymous
with
her
body.

In
role
after
role,
she
is

cast
for
her
physicality,
and
while
they
may
require
strenuous
or
highly
skilled
bodily
performances

(stripping
with
a
lasso,
scuba
diving
with
sharks
in
a
bikini,
martial
arts,
hip-‐hop
etc)
they
are
all

based
on
coding
her
body
as
a
visual
spectacle
that
is
sometimes
racialized,
but
always
sexualized
in

its
performance.

In
Honey,
Michael
Ellis
becomes
a
legitimate
antagonist
through
his
exploitation
of
and
sexual

violence
towards
her,
which
escalates
throughout
the
film
from
flirtatious
compliments
to
a
near

rape.
He
assumes
her
professional
obligation
to
him
extends
to
sexual
favors,
and
he
elides
control

over
her
career
with
control
over
her
image
and
body
e.g.
he
commands
that
she
accompany
him
to

an
industry
party
as
a
forced
escort
and
brings
a
designer
dress
that
he
orders
her
to
wear,
exerting

total
bodily
control
over
his
protégé.
Later
at
the
same
party,
he
forcibly
grabs
Honey
and
attempts
to

have
sex
with
her
and
then
reacts
violently
when
she
rejects
him,
yelling,
“Bitch,
you
gonna
play
me

like
that?”
Significantly,
even
though
Michael
is
a
white
man,
he
uses
the
diction
and
language
of

black
street
culture
to
express
his
dismay,
as
if
his
close
association
with
black
performers
somehow

sanctions
him
to
be
an
honorary
black
man
and
adopt
black
modes
of
speech
and
behavior.
This

same
hubris
undoubtedly
contributes
to
his
unquestioned
certainty
that
Honey
should
be
sexually

receptive
to
him
out
of
gratitude
for
his
generosity.
The
scene
disturbingly
echoes
the

institutionalized
rape
of
black
women
in
servitude
at
the
hands
of
white
owners,
and
like
a
slave

master,
Michael
takes
gross
advantage
of
his
superior
power
position
to
make
her
sexually

submissive.
However
in
this
contemporary
retelling,
Honey
has
the
right
to
assert
her
own
autonomy

and
doesn’t
capitulate;
and
yet
the
fact
remains
that
in
all
other
facets
of
her
life,
she
has
been
a

totally
acquiescent
and
passive
object.

Though
her
romantic
relationship
with
Chaz
is
seemingly
more
wholesome,
he
also
betrays

an
expectation
of
submission
from
Honey
during
their
courtship.
She
briefly
plays
hard-‐to-‐get
as
he

aggressively
pursues
her,
but
she
easily
accedes
and
they
suddenly
become
a
couple
without
any

sense
that
she
has
her
own
sexual
desires
or
direction.
Even
her
initial
discovery
at
the
club
involves

her
image
and
body
being
controlled
and
commodified
without
her
knowledge
or
consent:
she
is

metaphorically
“captured”
by
a
talent
scout’s
camcorder,
who
in
turn
pitches
her
image
to
Michael,

386

rendering
her
as
nothing
more
than
a
seductive
and
marketable
body,
without
agency
or
voice.
This

type
of
dominance
and
sexism
is
rampant
in
the
music
video
world
that
Honey
purportedly

documents,
but
Alba
herself
is
reduced
to
little
more
that
a
typical
video
girl
but
with
more
dialogue,

and
she
enacts
the
video
dancer’s
function
of
simply
existing
as
sexual
object,
as
Nicole
Fleetwood

describes:

This
is
most
clearly
evidenced
in
the
hip-‐hop
music
video
genre
of
the
1990s
and
early

2000s
where
the
shiny,
bouncing,
minimally
clothed
black
female
body
is
ubiquitous
within

the
form.
It
is
a
black
female
body
in
motion
as
hypersexed
vixen
that
brands
this
otherwise

male-‐dominated
cultural
production…The
salience
of
these
images
has
led
to
a
system
of

classifying
character
tropes
in
this
genre
with
women
as
extras
referenced
as
“video
vixens”

and
“video
hoes.”
The
music
video
has
become
the
symbol
of
black
female
undervaluation

as
individual
subjects,
and
overrepresentation
as
surplus
populations
within
black
cultural

representation.
These
performers
exist
in
a
precarious
relationship
between
being
and

enacting
excess
flesh.
They
exist
in
multitudes.

86

Honey’s
body
is
likewise
constructed
as
a
site
of
masculine
contestation
and
ownership,
as
the
men

in
the
film
try
to
colonize
her
body
both
as
a
dancer
and
as
a
sexual
partner.

In
Honey,
Jessica
Alba’s

extratextual
persona
is
foregrounded
to
full
advantage
and
it
becomes
a
consumable
product
both
for

the
film’s
characters
and
for
the
theater
audience.

Wavering
under
the
weight
of
its
own
ideological
instability,
Honey
attempts
to
address
and

encompass
multiple
issues
and
cannot
quite
succeed
in
any
aspect.
The
central
theme
appears
to
be

about
the
collision
between
cultural
authenticity
and
cultural
appropriation
through
mainstream

commodification,
and
the
film’s
ostensible
ethos
is
that
selling
out
is
tantamount
to
moral

degradation.
However
the
film
also
glamorizes
the
music
industry
and
video
culture
with
its
flashy

iconography,
just
as
it
lionizes
the
cadre
of
high
profile
hip-‐hoppers
who
make
cameos.
While
many

classical
narratives
stage
this
dream-‐turned-‐nightmare
trope
that
reveals
the
dark
side
of
a

glamorous
entertainment
industry,
it
is
significant
that
key
figures
from
the
very
epicenter
of

corporatized
cool
are
still
maintained
as
emblems—the
fact
that
Missy
Elliot
is
cast
as
the
film’s

savior
suggests
that
she
is
somehow
not
implicated
in
the
evil
industry
paradigm,
and
she
holds
the

door
open
for
Honey’s
acceptable
mainstream
access.
The
film
also
purports
to
advocate
community

involvement
and
the
overused
but
always
popular
theme
of
black
urban
uplift.

Although

significantly,
betterment
and
escape
from
ghetto
life
are
still
only
accessible
to
the
blacks
in
the
film

by
means
of
being
performers
and
entertainers,
which
in
addition
to
sports,
is
the
designated
sphere

86

Nicole
Fleetwood,
Troubling
Vision:
Performance,
Visuality
and
Blackness.
(Chicago,

University
of
Chicago
Press,
2011),
132-‐133.

387

of
access
and
ascension
granted
to
African
Americans.
And
perhaps
the
most
contradictory
impulse

of
all
is
the
figure
of
Honey
herself:
she
is
continually
presented
as
the
neighborhood
sweetheart
with

unassailable
morals,
and
she
appears
genuinely
dismayed
by
the
external
attempts
to
exploit
and

control
her
body.
And
yet
the
actress
and
character
are
hypersexualized,
and
every
formal
decision,

from
costuming
to
camera
work,
is
designed
to
showcase
her
physicality
and
objectify
her
for
the

pleasure
of
the
viewing
audience.
Alba
was
cast
for
that
very
reason,
and
if
we
were
to
grant
Honey
a

generous
interpretation,
we
could
read
this
generally
unsteady
film
as
a
metatextual
deconstruction

of
Alba’s
own
persona
and
delimited
roles.
She
has
and
will
continue
to
be
portrayed
as
a
beautiful

body
in
motion—an
in-‐between
figure
subtended
by
her
ambiguous
but
always
racialized
femininity.

Unable
to
transcend
the
fixity
of
stereotypical
representation
and
yet
simultaneously
benefitting

from
a
commercial
climate
that
seeks
multi-‐ethnic
spice,
Alba’s
body,
like
that
of
other
minority

women
in
the
media,
becomes
a
contested
site.
It
is
a
site
of
constantly
shifting
and
reproduced

meanings,
sometimes
embraced
by
dominant
normative
standards,
and
at
other
times
denounced

and
rejected.
And
for
all
the
complexities,
contradictions,
and
potential
areas
for
critique
and

resistance,
the
only
legacy
Honey
has
left
behind
is
a
very
sexy
poster.

388

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

The
canonized
masterworks
of
the
nineteenth
century
stage
are
known
as
ballets
blancs,
or

“white
ballets.”
This
is
a
pointedly
apt
name
for
the
tulle-‐laden,
frothy
classics
like
Swan
Lake,
Giselle,

and
Les
Sylphides,
which
have
become
the
epitome
of
high
culture
dance
and
have
furnished
the

widely
held
conception
of
ballet
in
the
popular
imaginary.
The
ballets
blancs
technically
derive
their

name
from
the
diaphanous
white
costumes
worn
by
the
swans,
wilis,
and
sylphs
of
their
titles,
but

the
fact
remains
that
ballet
was
and
continues
to
be
a
white
girl’s
world.
This
was
once
a
matter
of

necessity
(a
lack
of
racial
diversity
in
ballet
companies)
or
prejudicial
exclusion
(in
an
era
of

segregation,
the
rarefied
world
of
ballet
could
not
withstand
such
an
incursion).
In
today’s
would-‐be

inclusive
and
progressive
society,
the
continued
white
majority
in
most
ballet
companies
can
now
be

ascribed
to
matters
of
individual
preference
or
aesthetic
considerations.
Although
no
longer
excluded

by
policy,
a
black
ballerina
might
still
eschew
a
traditional
company
and
join
an
all-‐black
troupe
for

the
sake
of
unanimity
and
comfort.
Conversely,
the
very
inclusion
of
raced
bodies
in
an
otherwise
all-‐
white
company
also
has
aesthetic
implications,
i.e.
how
to
maintain
the
desired
visual
uniformity

when
there
is
an
obvious
outlier
in
the
mix.
Similarly,
the
classical
ballets
are
all
set
in
an
antiquated

European
backdrop,
with
corseted
village
girls
and
men
in
pantaloons
and
codpieces.
When
a

company
mounts
a
traditional
staging
of
a
ballet
with
historically
accurate
costumes
and
settings,
the

inclusion
of
a
black
dancer
becomes
an
anachronistic
deviation
that
should
not
matter,
but

unavoidably
does.

Throughout
the
twentieth
century,
classically
trained
black
dancers
struggled
for
acceptance

and
admittance
into
the
ballet
world,
but
were
rejected
and
rebuffed.
One
of
the
recurrent
racist

arguments
was
that
their
bodies
and
feet
were
simply
incompatible
with
ballet
technique
and
form,

and
that
on
a
biological
level,
black
people
were
unsuitable
for
ballet:

African
Americans
have
also
been
stereotyped
as
genetically
best
suited
for
certain
types
of

dance
that
exhibit
what
is
supposedly
our
innate
sense
of
rhythm,
but
innately
ill-‐equipped

for
other
“white”
dance
forms.
As
was
the
case
with
sports
and
with
professional,
academic,

white-‐collar,
and
blue-‐collar
jobs—that
is,
the
full
spectrum
of
professional
and
vocational

possibilities
beyond
the
most
menial—so
also
is
the
world
of
concert
dance
opening
up
to

peoples
of
African
lineage
as
they
slowly
chip
away
the
barriers
that
had
kept
them
out.
But

to
enter
that
world
means
to
go
through
and
beyond
several
attract-‐repel,
love-‐hate

stereotypes
that
are
grouped
around
specific
body
zones,
particularly
the
feet
and
buttocks:

the
finessed
feet
that
black
supposedly
do
not
have,
but
need;
the
bawdy
buttocks
that

389

supposedly
they
have,
but
do
not
need.
The
black
buttocks
are
alternately
loved
and
hated

by
both
blacks
and
whites.
87

This
gross
misconception
of
racial
suitability
has
been
gradually
eroded
over
the
last
several

decades,
but
we
now
face
the
extremities
of
its
obverse:
there
is
currently
a
widespread
and

fashionable
embrace
of
black
physicality
to
the
point
where
it
is
once
again
particularized,
but
this

time
with
admiration
rather
than
disdain.
This
reverse
corollary
is
a
marked
improvement,
but
it
still

reinforces
the
discourse
of
difference.
Additionally,
it
is
an
especially
delicate
and
difficult
topic
when

the
conversation
turns
to
the
verifiable
visual
difference
between
white
and
black
dancing
bodies.

Politically
correct
rhetoric
would
hold
that
there
is
no
legitimate
biological
difference
between
races

and
therefore
all
people
deserve
equitable
treatment,
socially,
professionally,
or
otherwise.
However,

the
specter
of
difference
persists,
and
while
there
is
negligible
genetic
variation
between
blacks
and

whites,
and
it
is
an
utter
falsehood
that
blacks
are
incapable
of
ballet
technique,
there
is
still
an

obvious
difference
between
the
races
on
stage
that
necessitates
either
forced
color-‐blindness
or

intentionally
racialized
casting.

In
more
abstract
ballets,
casting
can
be
racially
neutral,
since
the
choreography
is
about
lines,

shapes,
and
composition.
These
productions
typically
favor
a
minimalist
set
and
basic
costumes,
such

as
simple
leotards
or
bare
skin.
However,
even
in
this
formulation,
the
fundamental
visual
difference

between
skin
color
still
comes
into
play.
For
example,
different
skin
colors
require
different
lighting

techniques,
and
even
ostensibly
color-‐blind
casting
does
not
make
the
audience
blind
to
the

performer’s
race—there
will
always
be
an
attached
meaning
to
the
signifier
of
skin
color.

Complicating
the
situation
further,
some
productions
engage
in
a
postmodern
lionization
of
the
Other

that
is
at
the
root
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film.
In
many
cases,
black
dancers
are
intentionally
cast
to

showcase
their
musculature
and
athleticism,
with
men
often
performing
shirtless
and
women
in

scanty
flesh-‐toned
colors
that
simulate
nudity.
In
some
key
productions,
black
dancers
have

originated
the
roles,
and
it
can
be
concluded
that
their
race
was
a
key
factor
in
the
casting
and

conception
of
the
piece
(e.g.
ABT’s
and
San
Francisco
Ballet’s
1998
production
of
Othello).
In
these

instances,
the
physical
difference
of
ethnic
bodies
becomes
glorified,
but
much
like
the
convoluted

exoticism
in
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
these
casting
decisions
are
weighted.
In
a
multicultural
context

of
artistic
liberation,
casting
is
outwardly
divested
of
racial
consideration,
when
in
fact
it
is
just
as

87

Brenda
Dixon
Gottschild,
The
Black
Dancing
Body:
A
Geography
From
Coon
To
Cool
(New

York:
Palgrave
Macmillan,
2002),
159.

390

reliant
on
entrenched
assumptions
and
racialized
logic
as
any
of
the
prejudicial
exclusionary

practices
from
prior
decades.

Whiteness
remains
the
norm
in
ballet,
and
not
just
any
whiteness;
ballerinas
are
associated

with
the
lily-‐white
pallor
that
epitomized
eighteenth
century
and
Victorian
beauty
ideals.
This

whiteness
goes
hand-‐in-‐hand
with
the
ideal
ballet
body,
and
although
the
correct
figure
has
shifted

greatly
from
the
curvier
“ballet
girls”
of
the
nineteenth
century
to
the
lean
athletes
of
contemporary

companies,
one
body
type
has
prevailed:
the
waif.
Moreover,
the
waifish
shape
is
most
immediately

associated
with
the
white
female
body,
leading
to
an
automatic
elision
of
whiteness
with
ballet,

despite
the
vast
variation
and
malleability
of
the
human
body
across
races
and
eras:

On
the
other
hand,
black
dancers
have
developed
ballet
bodies.
Surely
no
dancing
body—
black,
brown,
or
white—is
inherently
unfit
for
any
kind
of
dance.
Instead,
cultural

preferences
by
the
established
pundits
of
taste
set
and
shape
the
exclusive
criteria
that

distinguish
one
culture’s
values
from
another,
one
dance
form
from
another.
It’s
really
more

about
what
we
like
to
see
than
what
the
dancing
body
can
be
taught
to
do.
And
no
dance

form
or
technique
is
based
upon
“the
natural
body,”
whatever
that
might
be.
Each
form

carries
its
own
human-‐made
(usually
man-‐made)
aesthetic
criteria
that
represent
a

particular
culture’s
needs,
aspirations,
preferences,
and
dislikes
in
a
particular
era.
And

each
form,
even
those
that
we
call
classical
or
traditional,
has
changed
over
time.
Thus
the

twentieth
century
ballet
body
looked
very
little
like
its
nineteenth
century

counterpart…Twentieth
century
dancing
bodies
reflected
twentieth
century
values.
They

became
taller,
longer-‐limbed,
and
more
muscular,
acrobatic,
speedy,
and
technically

sensational
that
their
nineteenth
century
forerunner…We
may
still
recognize
it
as
the
same

aesthetic
form
in
both
centuries,
but
the
shapes
were
different.
88

The
ballet
blancs
are
supernatural
in
content,
meaning
that
the
ballerina,
who
is
already
more

delicate
and
graceful
than
the
average
pedestrian,
has
to
become
even
more
otherworldly.
The
best

way
to
connote
the
ethereal
through
the
body
is
to
have
a
figure
that
is
exceedingly
slender,
ranging

from
ectomorphic
to
emaciated.
Everything
about
the
ballerina,
from
costuming,
to
choreography,

to
the
vertiginous
tip
of
her
pointe
shoe
is
meant
to
convey
a
sense
of
airy
insubstantiality.
Extreme

thinness
is
simply
a
necessary
bodily
extension
of
that
desired
aesthetic.
Admittedly
there
are

exceptions
to
the
omnipresent
frail
white
female,
which
I
will
address
below,
but
the
very
fact
that

these
exceptions
exist
as
glaring
anomalies
only
strengthens
the
evidence
that
whiteness
is

continually
privileged
in
the
ballet
world.
In
this
chapter,
I
will
begin
with
a
historical
survey
of
the

cinematic
representations
of
the
ballerina,
alongside
the
common
iconography,
narrative
tropes,

and
generic
codes
that
have
become
synonymous
with
the
ballet
film.

I
will
then
shift
to
an

88

Ibid.,
103.

391

exploration
of
the
implicit
linkage
of
ballet
with
the
deteriorating
body,
and
how
the
construction
of

white
femininity
almost
always
corresponds
to
an
attendant
bodily
or
mental
affliction.
Moving

from
the
racialized
construction
of
the
white
ballerina,
I
will
conclude
with
a
discussion
of
the

underrepresented
or
entirely
absent
black
ballerina,
both
in
real
life
concert
dance
and
on
film.

Ballet
as
Backdrop:
Female
Melodrama
and
the
Dance
Film

From
The
Red
Shoes
(1948)
to
The
Turning
Point
(1977)
to
Black
Swan
(2010),
Hollywood

has
been
obsessed
with
the
obsessive
ballerina.
The
visual
signifiers
of
the
ballet
world
have

become
so
codified
and
shopworn
that
they
should
have
lost
their
efficacy,
and
yet
filmmakers

continue
to
employ
them
with
successful
impact.
In
a
testament
to
the
perennial
allure
of
the
form,

audiences
can’t
seem
to
get
enough
of
the
besieged
ballerina.
Perhaps
it
is
the
incomparable
beauty

of
the
classical
line,
or
its
accumulated
cultural
patina,
but
the
world
of
ballet
proves
a
continually

renewable
and
generative
backdrop
for
drama
films.

While
not
all
dance
films
cleave
to
this
model,

the
trope
of
the
mad
ballerina
has
become
so
familiar
as
to
be
definitional
of
the
genre
itself.
We
are

habituated
to
the
spectacle
of
female
hysteria
and
the
extravagance
of
artistic
insanity,
and
the

ballerina
has
become
a
metonym
for
passion,
morbidity,
and
madness.
In
her
impressive
work

Dying
Swans
and
Madmen,
Adrienne
McLean
takes
gender-‐studies
inflected
approach
in
cataloguing

and
pathologizing
the
figure
of
the
ballerina:

Paradoxically,
the
importance
of
dance
and
dancing
as
a
site
of
such
potentially
disruptive

significance—even,
or
especially,
in
historical
terms—can
perhaps
best
be
argued
for

through
analysis
of
ballet’s
film
presence
outside
the
confines
of
the
generic
musical,
in

what
film
studies
now
call
melodrama.
Along
with
the
musical,
the
“ballet
meller”
forms
an

important
locus
for
the
circulation
of
ballet’s
meaning
in
American
culture,
its
immense

rhetorical
power
drawn
from
ballet’s
fetishistic
and
fetishized
appurtenances—tights,
tutus,

tiaras,
toe
shoes—and
from
the
widely
circulated
meanings
of
its
best
known
and
most

notorious
performers.
In
these
films
ballet
signifies
as
costuming,
music,
destiny,
but
not

necessarily
dancing—an
iconographically
rendered
allegory
about
the
difficulty,
if
not

impossibility,
of
reconciling
art
and
normal
life.
89

In
these
ballet-‐as-‐backdrop
films,
ballet
is
both
mystified
and
demystified
in
the
sense
that

we
are
privileged
in
seeing
the
torment
and
strain
behind
the
delicacy
(bloodied
blistered
toes,

eating
disorders,
emotional
and
mental
breakdowns)
while
the
mythic
aura
and
romance
of
the

ballet
world
are
still
preserved.
Despite
the
deconstructed
element
of
revealing
pain
and
sacrifice,

the
ballet
melodrama
still
reinforces
the
form’s
elevated
cultural
status
by
suggesting
that
it
is
an

89

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

17.

392

almost
reverential
calling,
suitable
for
only
a
few
chosen
creatures.
If
musicals
depict
show
people
as

being
separate
from
everyday
people,
then
ballet
films
depict
the
dancers
as
otherworldly
and

inviolate.
Consequently,
these
non-‐musical
ballet
films
retain
the
high
culture
binary
with
their

unquestioned
protrayal
of
ballet
as
the
apotheosis
of
Western
artistic
achievement
and
the
ballerina

as
its
fervent
disciple.
This
conception
of
ballet
will
translate
into
the
twenty-‐first
century
Formula

Dance
Film,
which
maintains
the
same
awed
reverence
of
ballet
but
then
reverses
the
valence,
with

hip-‐hop
emerging
as
the
new
champion
of
American
dancing
identity.
While
the
Formula
Dance
Film

never
exactly
denigrates
ballet
(the
technique
and
discipline
are
always
admired
and
respected)
it

critiques
and
undermines
ballet’s
restrictive
training
and
elitist
status,
infusing
the
venerable
form

with
fresh
contemporary
twists—a
hybridity
that
is
at
the
ideological
core
of
the
genre.

Whether
used
as
a
fleeting
diversion
or
with
dramatic
centrality,
ballerinas
have
existed
on

film
since
its
inception.
Melies
et
al.
captured
brief
vignettes
of
ballerinas
“toe
dancing,”
and
ballet

made
appearances
in
both
fictive
shorts
and
actualities,
like
the
famed
reel
of
Anna
Pavlova

performing
The
Swan
in
1905.

Moving
out
of
the
silent
era
and
into
the
sound
films
of
the
classical

period,
the
ballerina
found
herself
at
home
in
the
genre
of
female
melodrama,
where
her
artistic

passion
and
dedication
are
rivaled
only
by
her
internal
struggles,
with
frequently
devastating
results.

Ballet
on
film
is
undeniably
beautiful
but
seemingly
antithetical
to
lasting
happiness.
Even
when
a

ballerina
professes
to
love
her
craft,
there
is
very
little
joy
and
exuberance
in
the
non-‐musical
ballet

film.
Rather,
there
is
a
continual
emphasis
on
sacrifice
(physical,
mental,
and
emotional)
for
what
is

coded
as
an
exalted
art
form.

In
terms
of
public
reception,
it
is
also
significant
that
ballet
films
may

be
the
only
access
that
many
people
have
to
classical
ballet,
given
the
prohibitive
cost
of
theater

tickets
or
lack
of
regional
dance
productions
and
companies.
Consequently,
the
filmmakers
have
the

additional
onus
of
conveying
a
complex
and
specialized
subculture
to
a
general
audience
with

narrative
efficiency,
resulting
in
the
usually
overwrought
depictions,
and
heavy-‐handed
symbolism

rampant
in
the
ballet
film.

Conceived
and
directed
by
the
famously
excessive
team
of
Michael
Powell
and
Emeric

Pressburger,
The
Red
Shoes
is
widely
regarded
as
the
ballet
film
ur-‐text,
and
as
a
highly
formalist

venture,
its
lush
colors
and
cinematography
create
a
stylized
dreamscape
for
the
melodramatic
story.

At
the
other
end
of
the
spectrum
in
a
more
strictly
realist
context,
updated
backstagers
like
The

Turning
Point
(Herbert
Ross,
1977)
and
Center
Stage
(Nick
Hytner,
2000)
take
a
contemporary

approach
to
the
intrigues
of
company
life,
which
are
full
of
back-‐stabbing
machinations
and
romantic

or
sexual
complications.

While
The
Red
Shoes
was
more
of
a
painterly
fantasy
and
surrealist
vision
of

393

ballet,
the
latter
two
films
purport
to
accurately
document
the
unglamorous
side
of
the
ballet
world,

from
grueling
rehearsals
to
megalomaniacal
directors,
to
eating
disorders
and
injuries.
Both
films

chronicle
the
rise
of
aspiring
young
dancers
at
the
start
of
their
career,
while
also
delving
into
the

equally
compelling
storylines
of
older
dancers
who
have
forfeited
love
and
family
for
dance
or
vice

versa,
leading
to
regrets
and
resentments.
Both
The
Turning
Point
and
Center
Stage
take
place
in
a

recognizably
gritty
New
York
and
revel
in
the
mundane
yet
exhilarating
daily
grind
of
the

professional
dancer
in
an
urban
center.
On
a
narrative
level,
both
realist
films
rely
on
established

conventions,
including
the
cocky
lothario
who
seduces
the
naïve
starlet,
the
pressures
of
attaining

bodily
perfection,
and
the
internal
conflict
of
thwarted
dreams.

Although
The
Turning
Point
is
a
foundational
work
in
the
dance
genre,
it
contributes
to
the

Formula
Dance
Film
in
terms
of
content
alone,
and
not
in
aesthetic
or
formal
techniques.
On
a
formal

level,
the
film
has
a
staid
and
static
quality
without
significant
technological
innovations.
It
is
almost

a
throwback
to
the
early
days
of
the
film
musical
when
dance
sequences
were
recorded
with
a

locked-‐off
camera
that
replicated
the
3
rd

row
center
perspective,
long
before
directors
perfected
the

medium
specific
techniques
of
cine-‐dance
and
integration.
The
dance
sequences
in
The
Turning
Point

are
purely
functional,
resorting
to
the
proscenium
framing
that
historically
hampered
early
musicals.

While
the
performances
are
commendably
captured
in
their
totality,
there
is
nothing
especially

cinematic
or
rousing
about
the
sequences.
Mikhail
Baryshnikov’s
virtuosic
variations
are
strong

enough
to
command
the
viewer’s
attention,
but
the
sequences
look
more
like
a
filmed
stage

performance.
In
contrast,
Center
Stage,
which
falls
in
the
timeline
of
the
incipient
Formula
Dance

Film,
takes
the
narrative
and
thematic
patterns
of
a
ballet
melodrama
but
infuses
the
familiar

template
with
a
kinetic
sensibility
and
music
video
formalism
that
typify
this
new
genre.

Center
Stage:
Breaking
the
Classical
Mold

From
its
storyline,
to
its
iconography
and
narrative
tropes,
Center
Stage
mines
the
catalogue

of
previous
dance
films
and
freely
trots
out
classic
genre
clichés.
These
standbys
include
audition

scenes,
battered
feet,
eating
disorders,
romantic
intrigue,
last
minute
injuries
with
star-‐making

substitutions,
and
a
culture
clash
that
pits
youth
against
adults
and
convention-‐bound
traditionalists

against
innovative
iconoclasts.
Like
other
Formula
Dance
Films
to
follow,
Center
Stage
has
more

dance
and
musicalized
sequences
than
dialogue
scenes,
and
it
relies
on
montage
for
storytelling,

characterization,
and
as
a
crash
course
introduction
to
the
ballet
world
for
uninitiated
audiences.

Unlike
hip-‐hop,
which
enjoys
a
cultural
prominence
and
widespread
media
presence,
ballet
is
a

somewhat
elusive
and
inaccessible
subculture,
so
it
is
essential
that
audience
members
understand

394

the
stakes,
the
protocol,
and
the
praxis.
Center
Stage
privileges
the
typically
unseen
aspects
of
the

ballet
world,
from
the
audition
process,
to
breaking
in
a
new
pair
of
pointe
shoes,
to
the
backstage

environment
of
the
theater
wings.

Director
Sir
Nicholas
Hytner
mounted
this
project
with
the
intention
of
putting
his
own
spin

on
the
dance
film,
and
based
on
his
commentary,
he
was
fully
aware
of
how
referential
this
movie

would
be.
Far
from
shying
away
from
clichés,
he
appears
to
embrace
them:

The
reason
I
wanted
to
make
the
film
was
because
I
wanted
to
see
how
possible
it
was
to

make
a
movie
out
of
the
stage
performance
of
ballet;
it’s
not
easy...The
main
reason
I
made

the
film
was
I
wanted
to
end
it
with
ten
minutes
pure
dance,
narrative
ballet
to
see
whether

dance
on
film
could
still
tell
a
story.
90

He
was
likely
cognizant
of
past
films
and
very
intentional
in
his
approach,
since
his
main
goal
was
to

dramatize
a
story
about
the
ballet
world
in
a
mainstream
film,
rather
than
revolutionize
the
genre.

Hytner’s
artistic
legitimacy
is
rooted
in
his
serious
theatrical
background
as
a
director
and
producer

of
plays
and
operas,
and
his
credits
include
The
English
National
Opera’s
long-‐running
production
of

The
Magic
Flute
(1988)
and
the
blockbuster
musical
Miss
Saigon
(1989).
He
has
since
been
appointed

the
director
of
the
National
Theater
in
2003.
Unlike
other
Formula
Dance
Film
directors
who
come

from
the
musical
video
world
and
import
that
same
stylized
sensibility,
Hytner’s
only
previous
film

work
was
The
Madness
of
King
George
(1994)
and
The
Crucible
(1996).
These
titles
attest
to
his

preference
and
affinity
for
adapting
prestige
literary
properties,
as
opposed
to
high
concept
teen
fare.

As
a
theater
aficionado,
Hytner
brings
his
first-‐hand
experience
to
augment
and
enhance
the
original

Center
Stage
screenplay
and
he
was
apparently
undeterred
by
the
prosaic
script,

“The
movie
has
a

fairly
traditional
and
if
you
like,
predictable
structure.
It’s
like
a
movie
with
a
race
at
the
end,
but
it’s

not
entirely
untrue.”
91

Critics
were
quick
to
snappishly
focus
on
the
well-‐trodden
territory,
but

despite
harsh
reviews,
the
film
managed
to
rank

sixth
place
at
the
box
office
on
its
opening
weekend

against
formidable
summer
blockbuster
competition
like
Gladiator.
92

Since
its
release,
Center
Stage

has
maintained
continual
popularity
as
a
cult
classic,
sleep-‐over
favorite,
and
guilty
pleasure
for
real

dancers.

90

Nicholas
Hytner,
“Audio
Commentary,”
Center
Stage
DVD,
directed
by
Nicholas
Hytner

(Culver
City:
Sony
Pictures
Home
Entertainment,
2000).

91

Ibid.,

92

Box
Office
Mojo,
http://boxofficemojo.com
(accessed
June
2013).

395

Following
the
pursuits
of
five
aspiring
New
York
City
ballet
dancers,
Center
Stage
proceeds

in
a
perfunctory
linear
fashion
and
hits
all
the
key
narrative
points
that
mobilize
the
dance
film

genre.
Jody
Sawyer
is
a
winsome
and
sheltered
ingénue
who
must
battle
her
internalized
self-‐doubt

and
continual
criticism
from
the
American
Ballet
Academy
faculty.
Her
best
friend
and
roommate
Eva

Rodriguez
is
the
sharp-‐tongued
rebel
whose
innate
talent
is
initially
overshadowed
by
her
attitude

and
skirmishes
with
teachers
and
company
directors.
The
academy
protégé
Maureen
is
known
for

her
perfect
technique,
icy
demeanor,
and
guaranteed
spot
in
the
company.
Charlie
is
the
handsome

love
interest;
Dimitri
is
a
Russian
import
whose
accent
is
used
for
comic
relief;
and
Erik
is
a
gay
black

man
burdened
by
all
the
broadest
stereotypes
about
black
“queens,”
complete
with
over-‐the-‐top

swishing
and
crude
lines
like,
“My
stage
name
is
Erik
O.
Jones,
after
Oprah—she
is
my
idol.”
Rounding

out
the
cast,
Cooper
Nielson
is
the
company’s
cocky
male
lead
and
resident
lothario,
who
summarily

seduces
and
then
discards
Jody,
leading
to
a
love
triangle
of
unrequited
affection
between
Cooper,

Jody,
and
Charlie.

In
accordance
with
the
genre
template,
these
young
dancers
must
negotiate

professional
upheavals
with
personal
setbacks
like
heartbreak,
health
concerns,
and
the
sacrifices
of

artistic
achievement.

The
film’s
tagline
neatly
captures
this
familiar
construction,
“Life
doesn’t
hold

tryouts.”
As
with
other
dance
films,
the
romance
narrative
dovetails
and
eventually
reconciles

simultaneously
with
the
final
performance
set-‐piece,
and
the
grand
finale
in
Center
Stage
is

particularly
fantastical.

In
this
case,
the
All
Important
Performance
is
an
end-‐of-‐term
showcase
that

serves
as
a
type
of
massive
audition
where
recruiters
from
the
country’s
most
prestigious
ballet

companies
attend
the
showcase
to
scout
and
hire
new
dancers.
Plot-‐wise,
it
is
imperative
for
the

characters
to
secure
a
notable
role
and
to
give
a
performance
that
will
garner
attention
and
elicit
job

offers.

The
central
narrative
tension
in
Center
Stage
stems
from
a
clash
between
tradition
and

experimental
innovation,
a
correlate
to
the
race
and
culture
clash
that
energizes
other
Formula

Dance
Films.
Here,
the
rigidly
traditional
company
director
Jonathan
Reeves
(played
with
gusto
by

Peter
Gallagher)
favors
canonized
ballet
work
and
insists
on
choreographing
in
the
classical
mode—
his
piece
for
the
showcase
is
a
beautiful
but
somewhat
antiquated
Romantic
ballet
choreographed
to

Rachmaninoff.
The
only
noteworthy
aspect
of
Jonathan’s
ballet
is
its
plot
function,
whereby
Eva

secretly
replaces
Maureen
as
the
soloist
in
the
final
performance.

After
realizing
that
ballet
is
in
fact

destroying
her
health
and
happiness,
Maureen
rejects
her
prima
ballerina
status,
confronts
her

controlling
stage
mother,
and
passes
the
torch
to
Eva
in
a
shocking
last-‐minute
switch.
At
the
other

extreme,
Cooper’s
showcase
ballet
is
a
playful,
sexy,
postmodern
pastiche
in
keeping
with
his
enfant

terrible
approach
to
art.
In
a
convenient
and
genre-‐standard
bit
of
plotting,
Erik—originally
cast
as

396

the
bad-‐boy
lover
in
the
piece—suffers
a
devastating
injury
during
final
dress
rehearsal,
leading

Cooper
to
take
on
the
role
in
his
own
ballet,
essentially
playing
himself.
Cooper’s
piece
satirically

pillories
pretentious
ballet
culture
in
the
way
that
hip-‐hop’s
influence
will
eventually
undermine

classicism
in
subsequent
dance
films.
Here,
rather
than
using
the
pointedly
racialized
format
of
hip-‐
hop
to
counter
ballet,
the
radicalism
comes
from
unconventional
stage
trickery
(Cooper
drives
a
real

motorcycle
on
the
stage);
provocative
costuming

(lingerie
and
colorful
braids
on
the
females
as

opposed
to
tutus
and
tightly
controlled
buns);
and
music
choice—instead
of
the
expected
orchestral

score,
Cooper
chooses
Michael
Jackson’s
“The
Way
You
Make
Me
Feel”
in
order
to
connote
a
sense
of

fresh
urban
appeal.

Cooper’s
ballet
is
coded
as
cool,
hip,
and
youthful
due
to
its
contemporary
infusion
of
pop

music
and
trendy
aesthetics,
rather
than
the
appropriation
of
black
culture
that
will
occur
in
later

films.
This
strategy
is
actually
a
throwback
to
older
film
formats
and
it
is
more
akin
to
postclassical

musicals,
where
Broadway
hoofers
shakeup
stodgy
ballet
tradition
with
their
energy
and

showmanship.
As
both
a
proto-‐Formula
Dance
Film
and
a
classical
musical
homage,
Center
Stage
uses

its
grand
finale
to
recapitulate
the
dramatic
conflict
of
the
entire
film
and
to
resolve
the
romantic

storyline
before
it
actually
concludes
offstage.
This
narrative
technique
is
the
province
and
protocol

of
the
FDF,
but
also
a
derivation
from
the
musical
dream
ballet,
a
convention
introduced
by
Gene

Kelly
and
Stanley
Donen
and
perfected
in
films
like
On
the
Town
(1949)
and
An
American
in
Paris

(1951).
As
with
the
dream
ballets,
the
choreography
in
Cooper’s
piece
literalizes
Jody’s
internal

struggle
as
she
gets
pulled
between
two
men
while
doing
a
tortured
pas
de
bourré.
However,
within

the
scope
of
this
diegetic
ballet,
she
shakes
off
her
passive
victimized
status,
and
instead
chooses
her

passion
for
dance
over
both
pursuant
boys.
During
their
pas
de
trois,
Cooper
and
Charlie
compete
for

Jody’s
attention
with
varying
bravura
jumps,
but
she
rejects
them
both
and
takes
over
the
piece
in
a

dramatic
solo.
The
curtain
closes
with
her
executing
a
series
of
fouetté
turns,
as
the
audience
roars
in

approval.
This
entire
danced
drama
directly
mirrors
Jody’s
narrative
entanglements
off-‐stage,
and

the
resolution
that
occurs
choreographically
onstage
will
get
paralleled
in
the
movie’s
final
dialogue

scenes.
Since
the
real
resolution
of
the
film
takes
place
though
dance,
the
verbal
conclusions
are

extraneous
and
happen
summarily.
The
dancing
was
the
true
climax
and
the
dialogue
becomes

incidental.
Eva
get
chastised
for
her
audacity
but
still
wins
a
place
in
the
American
Ballet
Company,
as

does
Charlie;
Erik
is
injured
but
still
allowed
into
the
company;
Maureen
goes
to
college
and
enjoys
a

new
life
with
her
handsome
pre-‐med
boyfriend;
and
Jody
takes
Cooper
up
on
his
offer
to
join
his
new

renegade
company
but
rebuffs
his
romantic
advances,
“Cooper,
you’re
an
amazing
dancer,
and
a

great
choreographer,
but
as
a
boyfriend…
you
kinda
suck.”
As
the
final
line
of
the
film,
this
dialogue

397

seems
underwhelming
and
unsophisticated,
but
it
no
longer
matters:
the
dancing
was
Jody’s
true

moment
of
heroism,
and
the
real
ending
already
happened
on
stage.

While
Center
Stage
cleaves
to
the
blueprint
of
the
“ballet
meller”
with
its
clash
between

obsessive
artistry
and
personal
fulfillment,
it
is
closer
in
tone
and
outlook
to
the
Formula
Dance

Films
that
will
be
made
in
the
fifteen
years
after
its
2000
release.
Center
Stage
is
certainly
the
most

optimistic
of
any
ballet
film,
and
while
there
are
still
elements
of
darkness
and
ambiguity,
it
is

ultimately
a
fairytale
of
faith
and
hard
work
being
rewarded
by
romantic
and
artistic
success.

Although
there
is
no
explicit
racial
clash
as
seen
in
later
FDFs,
Center
Stage
still
helps
establish
the

key
signatures
of
the
genre.
These
include
MTV
editing
with
a
contemporary
pop
soundtrack;
free-‐
styling
scenes
as
young
dancers
cut
loose
in
a
club;
a
romantic
entanglement
that
gets
resolved

through
dance;
and
of
course
a
grand
finale
of
purely
cinematic
verve
during
which
all
the
narrative

threads
will
simultaneously
culminate.

White
Swans,
Black
Swans,
and
the
Ethnic
Ballerina

On
first
glance,
it
would
appear
that
Center
Stage
reflects
our
nominal
post-‐race

multicultural
moment,
and
that
millennial
ballet
has
moved
past
racial
divides
in
terms
of
access
and

exclusion.
However,
the
fact
that
Center
Stage
chooses
not
to
treat
evident
racial
disparities
does
not

mean
they
no
longer
exist—the
film
simply
does
not
engage
with
the
topic.
In
Hytner’s
constructed

world,
race
exists
with
apparently
no
deeper
meaning
or
consequence,
but
on
further
examination,

the
codes
of
ballet
and
its
borders
and
boundaries
are
still
demarcated.
Even
with
Eva’s
presence
as
a

female
lead,
ballet
remains
a
white
girl’s
game.
If
anything,
Eva’s
presence
and
her
singularity

underscore
this
restriction.
It
is
now
a
matter
of
omission
rather
than
outright
exclusion,
but
the

brown-‐skinned
ballerina
is
still
an
anomaly,
still
noticeable,
and
still
something
that
must
be

confronted
and
handled.
Even
if
the
prejudicial
elements
have
been
obliterated,
the
fact
of
race
as
a

visual
marker
of
difference
remains,
and
while
the
racist
underpinnings
may
be
gone,
the
reality
of

non-‐white
ballet
dancers
must
be
addressed.

Center
Stage
opens
with
a
genre
staple:
the
audition
montage.
Female
lead
Jody
Sawyer

(Amanda
Schull)
is
introduced
by
her
audition
number
“15,”
printed
on
a
piece
of
paper
attached
to

her
leotard
with
a
safety
pin.
This
image
and
situation
is
common
terrain
for
dancers,
but
for
a
general

audience
(or
those
not
familiar
with
the
visual
tropes
of
the
dance
film),
this
anonymity
and

uniformity
can
be
disconcerting.
The
eventual
heroine
of
the
film
has
been
reduced
to
a
number;
she

is
a
nameless,
faceless
body
in
motion
that
is
instantaneously
and
brutally
judged
by
a
panel
from
the

398

American
Ballet
Academy.
The
halls
of
this
non-‐descript
ballet
studio
are
choked
with
anxious

dancers’
parents
and
hovering
stage
mothers
(another
genre
staple)
and
Jody’s
modest
Midwestern

parents
ask
an
assistant
about
their
daughter’s
status:

Mrs.
Sawyer:

Do
you
know
how
many
they
take?

Assistant:

Usually
no
more
than
twelve.

Mr.
Sawyer:

Twelve
out
of
this
class?

Assistant:

Out
of
the
whole
planet.

Jody
is
one
of
hundreds
and
her
chances
are
minimal,
but
the
screenplay
quickly
inlays
her
most

resounding
character
trait,
which
is
that
she
possesses
a
magnetic
stage
presence
that
makes
up
for

her
technical
deficiencies.
As
she
performs
her
routine
down
the
floor,
the
dubious
adjudicators

watch
and
critique
aloud,
“In
the
middle,
number
fifteen.
Bad
feet.
No
turnout…but
look
at
her!”
The

straightforward
dialogue
insists
that
while
Jody
lacks
perfect
ballet
technique,
she
has
an
incredible

aura.
This
assurance
will
have
to
sustain
her
character
arc
for
the
next
ninety
minutes,
as
we
are

meant
to
believe
that
a
dancer
with
flawed
technique
can
actually
succeed
in
the
country’s
most

selective
ballet
school.

Jody’s
audition
in
intercut
with
Eva
Rodriguez
(Zoe
Saldana),
creating
an
immediate
tension

and
overt
disparity
between
the
characters
and
their
respective
desires.
On
a
more
covert
level,
this

juxtaposition
also
introduces
a
racial
and
cultural
disjuncture
that
the
film
will
flirt
with
but
never

fully
explore.
Jody
is
the
quintessential
white
girl-‐next-‐door,
with
blonde
hair,
blue
eyes,
and
a

sweetly
shy
demeanor.
There
is
also
a
softness
to
her
features
and
roundness
in
her
overall

physicality
that
is
uncommon
for
professional
dancers,
who
sport
a
more
chiseled,
even
emaciated

look.
With
her
adorable
smile,
Jody
is
traditionally
all-‐American,
likeable,
and
mild-‐mannered.
Eva

Rodriguez
is
constructed
as
her
foil,
physically
and
behaviorally—she
is
loud,
outspoken,
and

rebellious
to
the
point
of
insolence.
She
is
also
very
thin
and
dark-‐skinned,
with
a
confidence
and

hauteur
that
Jody
could
never
possess.
Eva
is
presumably
Latina
or
of
racially
mixed
African

American
descent,
but
the
script
never
specifies
and
we
must
rely
on
attributing
the
character’s
race

to
Saldana’s
own
famously
mixed
ethnic
background
(Dominican
and
Puerto
Rican).
While
Jody
is
an

aspirant
who
looks
at
the
American
Ballet
Academy
with
reverential
awe
and
longing
(“All
I’ve
ever

wanted
was
to
be
one
of
ABA’s
perfect
ballerinas”),
Eva
sees
the
institution
as
stifling
her
creativity,

freedom,
and
intrinsic
love
of
dance.
When
Jody
gets
chosen,
she
is
elated
and
rushes
into
her
parent

arms,
“This
is
the
greatest
thing
that’s
ever
happen
to
me!”
Contrastingly,
when
Eva
receives
her

acceptance
notice
she
growls
in
seeming
disappointment.
An
anxious
friend
asks:

399

Thomas:
What
happened?
They
didn’t
take
you?

Eva:
No!

Thomas:
No?
Those
bastards!

Eva:

Not
“No”
they
didn’t—“No,”
they
did!

In
a
scene
meant
to
comically
invert
Jody’s
conventional
nuclear
family,
Eva
and
her
equally
brassy

“ethnic”
friends
convene
in
a
pizza
parlor
where
she
rails
against
the
apparent
problem
of
her

admittance,
“It’s
a
scholarship.
They
give
them
to
everybody—that’s
the
only
way
that
can
get
people

to
go.”
She
then
muses
that
she
could
get
implants
and
work
at
the
newly
opened
local
Hooters.

Jody
is
living
her
dream;
Eva
is
disgruntled
and
resentful.
This
obviously
creates
future

tension
and
texture
in
terms
of
characterization,
but
on
a
deeper
level
these
parallel
scenes
serve
to

delineate
a
racial
divide:
Jody
is
the
classic
portrayal
of
a
ballerina.
She
is
white,
attractive,
and
comes

from
an
upper-‐middle
class
family
that
has
nurtured
and
funded
her
creative
desires
to
make
her

girlhood
dreams
come
true.
She
is
the
real
life
manifestation
of
the
ballerina
music
box—every
little

girl’s
fantasy.
Eva
on
the
other
hand,
is
a
street-‐smart
woman
of
color
with
no
discernable
parental

influence,
but
surrounded
by
a
coterie
of
friends
and
relatives
her
own
age.
Every
other
female
in
the

film
has
parents
who
are
referenced
or
seen,
but
Eva
is
depicted
as
a
toughened
urban
loner
who

only
associates
with
other
equally
rebellious
youth.
We
learn
from
dialogue
and
inference
that
she
is

from
a
working
class
neighborhood
and
that
money
is
an
issue,
hence
the
scholarship
that
she
views

with
distain
for
the
perceived
patronizing
largesse
of
rich
folk.
Jody
is
cosseted
and
coddled,
while

Eva
is
alone
and
fending
for
herself.
The
white
girl
is
a
dreamer;
the
brown
girl
is
a
realist
with
a

massive
chip
on
her
shoulder.

In
Center
Stage,
the
positioning
and
plight
of
the
brown-‐skinned
ballerina
become
strictly

localized
within
in
the
character
of
Eva
Rodriguez.
While
the
topic
of
race
is
never
overtly
discussed

in
the
film
and
the
words
“black”
or
“white”
are
never
mentioned,
skin
color
and
its
concomitant

socioeconomic
assumptions
are
very
present
and
even
foundational
to
the
narrative.
As
the
only

woman
of
color
in
the
entire
film,
Eva
Rodriguez
rolls
her
“R’s”
and
plays
up
multiple
ethnic
female

stereotypes,
including
the
Latina
spitfire
and
the
sassy
black
gal.
She
willfully
embodies
racialized

beliefs
such
a
CPT
(the
urban
acronym
for
Colored
People
Time)
in
that
she
is
constantly
late
for
class

and
seems
to
regard
the
start
time
as
a
flexible
suggestion
rather
than
a
concrete
rule.
Eva’s
lateness

speaks
to
her
rebelliousness,
but
it
is
also
inescapably
part
of
the
entrenched
cultural
in-‐joke
that

black
and
brown
folk
simply
can’t
show
up
anywhere
on
time.
When
a
strict
and
humorless

instructor
gives
Eva
a
correction
and
observes
the
improvement,
the
older
white
woman
says,
“Good

400

Eva,
do
you
feel
the
difference?”
and
Eva
smirks,
“It
feels
like
the
same
old
shit
to
me.”
While
it
is

virtually
inconceivable
that
any
student
would
be
so
brazenly
rude
in
a
conservatory
class,
this
is
an

important
part
of
Eva’s
characterization
and
ties
into
her
racialized
depiction.
As
the
resident

“ghetto”
girl,
Eva
consistently
uses
the
most
profanity
of
anyone
in
the
film,
in
addition
to
her

aggressive,
confrontational,
and
brutally
blunt
dialogue.
In
one
instance,
after
being
kicked
out
of

class
due
to
an
especially
impudent
outburst,
she
sulks
and
smokes
outside,
stomping
her
cigarette

with
a
pointe
shoe.
In
short,
she
is
portrayed
as
being
street
tough
and
“hood,”
and
therefore
“raced.”

The
two
identities
are
presented
as
inextricable
and
mutually
influential:
Eva’s
behavior
is
ghetto

because
she
ethnic,
and
this
attitude
remains
unquestioned.
Both
in
dialogue
and
performance,

Saldana’s
interpretation
of
Eva
plays
up
her
race
and
cultural
background,
and
we
accept
her

headstrong
iconoclasm
and
sharp
tongue
because
she
is
relying
on
a
history
of
outspoken
black

females
on
screen.
This
construction
is
more
palatable,
recognizable,
and
acceptable
to
us
than
if
a

mild-‐mannered
white
girl
were
suddenly
so
contentious.

Although
Erik
O.
Jones
is
a
more
minor
character
in
the
ensemble
cast,
his
appearances
are

brief
but
important
to
the
racial
representation
in
Center
Stage,
which
operates
largely
through

omission.

Erik’s
homosexuality
is
instantly
foregrounded
by
his
dialogue,
from
references
to
Oprah,

to
his
almost
predatory
flirtation
with
Charlie,
and
his
desirous
looks
at
all
the
new
male
students.
He

effectively
serves
as
the
prototypical
Black
Queen—a
character
type
that
has
not
been
included
in
the

usual
taxonomies
of
black
stock
figures,
but
one
that
has
gained
prominence
over
the
last
decade.

From
feature
film
to
myriad
reality
TV
shows
(Real
Housewives
of
Atlanta,
Fashion
Queens,
etc.),
the

flamboyant
and
fabulous
Black
Queen
has
become
a
staple
in
the
pop
culture
landscape.
Sharing

affinities
with
the
outlandish
world
of
drag,
the
Black
Queen
has
an
entire
private
language
and

terminology
(as
well
as
a
keen
and
critical
eye
for
fashion
faux
pas),
and
“her”
unique
lexicon
quickly

trickles
down
to
the
mainstream
and
gets
appropriated.
In
behavior
and
mores,
the
Black
Queen
is

similar
to
the
female
neck-‐rollers
I
have
mentioned
in
earlier
chapters,
with
the
same
snarky
and

snappy
delivery,
always
poised
with
a
bon
mot
or
cutting
insult
that
is
executed
with
considerable

attitude.
As
such,
Erik
primarily
serves
as
an
amusing
Greek
chorus
to
deliver
one-‐liners
and
make

gay
jokes,
which
are
apparently
not
considered
homophobic
because
of
the
very
nature
of
the
ballet

world,
where
homosexuality
in
the
norm.

However
despite
his
scant
characterization
and
one-‐dimensional
function,
the
film
also
uses

set
design
and
dialogue
to
provide
Erik
just
enough
back-‐story
to
convey
his
“blackness,”
and
the
fact

that
he
is
cultured,
artistic,
and
sensitive.
In
his
longest
scene,
Erik
comforts
Eva
after
she
has
been

401

relegated
to
the
corps
in
the
end-‐of-‐term
production,
essentially
ruining
her
chances
of
being
noticed

by
a
company
scout.
He
on
the
other
hand,
has
been
cast
opposite
Jody
and
Charlie
in
Cooper's
highly

anticipated
ballet.
Despite
his
apparent
superficiality
and
braggadocio,
this
scene
reveals
Erik’s
real

nature,
which
is
subdued,
empathetic,
and
deeply
soulful.

When
Eva
enters
his
room,
he
is
lying
in

bed
listening
to
a
soft
jazz
riff.
His
dorm
room
walls
are
plastered
with
Miles
Davis
posters
and
the

décor
is
tastefully
restrained.
Erik
is
coded
first
and
foremost
as
a
black
man
(he
favors
a
celebrated

black
artist)
but
one
with
sophisticated
taste
(jazz
instrumentals).
He
pointedly
does
not
have

posters
of
rappers,
sport
stars,
or
Al
Pacino's
Scar
Face,
all
of
which
would
be
expected
to
line
the

walls
of
a
black
urban
male’s
residence.
Erik
is
clearly
meant
to
be
categorized
as
a
culturally
literate

aesthete
who
appreciates
high
art
in
multiple
guises.
He
is
not
just
some
black
savant
from
the

streets
who
happens
to
excel
at
ballet;
rather,
he
has
refined
taste
and
what
might
be
seen
as
a

bourgeois
sensibility.
This
is
the
only
time
we
are
ever
privileged
to
see
Erik's
room
and
private

sphere,
and
through
visual
design,
the
film
clearly
codes
him
as
a
black
male
with
refined
(implicitly

white)
taste.
Eric
intuitively
understands
Eva
and
sees
through
her
calloused
defense
mechanism
of

nonchalance.
In
the
following
exchange,
he
invites
her
to
lie
next
to
him
on
his
bed,
where
he

embraces
and
kisses
her:

Erik:

Jody
says
he
[Cooper]
has
all
these
theories
about
making
ballet
for
the
people;
I

do
ballet
‘cause
it
has
nothing
to
do
with
the
people.

Give
me
tiaras
and
boys
in

tights
any
day…
I
hear
you’re
in
the
corps
in
Jonathan’s
ballet.

Eva:
Yup.
Just
goes
to
show,
don’t
piss
off
the
boss;
no
one
will
see
me
and
I’ll
never

get
a
job.

Erik:
I’m
sorry

Eva:

Big
deal.
I
don’t
care.

Erik:

Yeah,
I
know.
It
sucks
doesn’t
it?

Eva:
What?

Erik:
Not
caring.

Eva:
Kinda,
yeah.

This
quiet
scene
is
comparatively
long
and
uncharacteristically
still
in
a
film
so
reliant
on
excitation,

linear
action,
and
quick
cuts.
As
such,
it
stands
out
for
multiple
reasons,
not
only
on
a
formal
level
but

on
a
thematic
level
in
that
it
grants
the
two
non-‐white
characters
a
rare
moment
in
the
spotlight,

completely
independent
from
the
white
leads
and
their
central
love
triangle.
Although
it
is
not
part
of

the
expected
hetero-‐normative
romance
plot,
Erik
and
Eva
probably
have
the
most
tender
and
subtle

402

scene,
energized
by
the
unspoken
bond
of
their
shared
experience.
As
two
dancers
of
color
in
a

repressively
white
milieu,
they
likely
experience
a
form
of
double-‐consciousness
that
no
one
else
in

the
cast
has
endured.
Subtextually,
we
can
infer
that
these
two
have
dealt
with
additional
struggles

not
only
at
ABA,
but
throughout
their
lives
as
dark-‐skinned
urban
dancers
who
exist
as
aberrations
in

a
white
ballet
world—struggles
that
their
friends
could
never
truly
comprehend.
Jody
may
suffer

daily
scrutiny
because
of
her
turnout,
but
she
is
never
burdened
by
the
additional
weight
of
being

instantly
judged
(and
possibly
dismissed)
by
her
race
and
skin
color;
visually,
she
belongs
there.

Eva

and
Erik,
however,
must
overcompensate
by
developing
outsized
personalities
as
a
reaction
to
their

systemic
marginality.
Erik
reacts
through
an
effete,
drag-‐like
performance
of
his
sexuality
and
Eva

reacts
with
her
hardened,
aggressive
exterior
and
professed
indifference
that
mask
a
deep
hurt
and

vulnerability.
Their
white
friends
could
never
fully
sympathize
with
the
double-‐bind
and
additional

challenges
that
they
must
face,
or
the
fact
that
they
have
to
work
harder
to
prove
their
talent
in
an

already
competitive
environment.
Erik
and
Eva’s
back-‐stories
and
interiority
remain
underexplored

in
the
film,
but
the
very
existence
of
these
non-‐white
characters
in
a
segregated
dance
world
speaks

volumes.

Perhaps
the
most
flagrant
moment
of
problematized
racial
representation
in
a
film
that

doggedly
tries
to
disavow
racial
difference
comes
during
the
Final
Performance,
when
Eva
surprises

the
entire
crowd
by
replacing
Maureen
in
Jonathan’s
ballet.
The
staging
of
this
big
reveal
is

predicated
solely
on
the
racial
difference
between
the
respective
performers,
Eva
and
Maureen:
as

Dmitri
reaches
towards
the
wings
to
grasp
his
partner’s
hand
for
her
first
entrance,
we
see
a
close-‐up

shot
of
delicate
brown
fingers
extend
from
the
curtain,
clad
in
a
white
lace
sleeve.

The
next
image

cuts
to
a
medium
shot
revealing
Eva’s
entire
body
in
Maureen’s
costume,
but
by
this
point,
such
a

shot
is
unnecessary
since
the
dark
hand
clearly
belongs
to
Eva.
There
is
a
collective
gasp
from
the

diegetic
audience
that
accompanies
her
first
entrance,
and
the
initial
shock
and
impact
of
this
switch

would
not
work
without
the
blatant
racial
element.
This
close-‐up
shot
of
the
hand
would
simply

never
play
with
a
white
actress,
but
the
brown
hand
immediately
alerts
the
audience
that
this
is
Eva,

a
reveal
based
solely
on
the
color
of
her
skin.
The
hand
shot
is
rendered
all
the
more
shocking
due
to

the
darkness
of
Eva’s
skin
against
the
whiteness
of
her
lace
costume,
which
was
originally
designed

for
Maureen,
whose
skin
is
the
pale
alabaster
of
a
typical
classical
dancer
in
a
ballet
blanc.
In
the

offstage
coda
to
this
major
reveal,
Maureen’s
mother
Nancy
storms
out
of
the
theater
to
find
her

missing
daughter.
When
Maureen
confronts
her,
the
mother’s
aghast
reaction
to
the
switch
can
be

partly
ascribed
to
maternal
concern,
but
there
is
an
undeniable
racist
and
classist
element
in
her

word
choice:
“What’s
wrong—are
you
sick?
Why
the
hell
is
that
trash
out
there
dancing
your
part?”

403

Said
with
such
vitriol,
the
word
“trash”
becomes
an
implicitly
racialized
and
elitist
epithet.

Presumably
because
Eva
is
a
dark-‐skinned
girl
from
a
working
class
background,
she
is
automatically

“trash”
in
Nancy’s
eyes.
One
has
to
wonder
if
Nancy
would
have
similarly
termed
another
white

dancer
“trash”
if
she
had
likewise
supplanted
Maureen.

Although
Zoe
Saldana
trained
in
ballet
as
a
child,
and
she
maintains
the
trademark
carriage

and
posture,
the
filmmakers
still
relied
on
a
body
double
to
execute
the
more
complex
choreography

and
advanced
technique.
While
the
use
of
a
dance
double
is
not
an
uncommon
practice,
it
gains

additional
significance
in
Center
Stage
because
of
the
inherent
racial
segregation
and
limitations
in

the
ballet
world.
Saldana’s
double,
Aesha
Ash,
has
a
completely
different
silhouette
and
body
shape

than
the
actress.
Ash
is
noticeably
shorter
and
sturdier,
which
creates
a
jarring
effect
that
impacts
the

visual
continuity
of
the
dance
sequences.
As
the
shots
switch
from
medium
close-‐ups
of
Saldana,
to

faceless
wide-‐shots
of
Ash
dancing,
the
filmmakers
must
rely
on
creative
editing
and
concealment
to

mask
the
discrepancy.

In
this
case,
the
visual
difference
between
the
actress
and
the
dancer
was
not

voluntary:
Ash
happened
be
the
only
African
American
dancer
in
the
real
New
York
City
Ballet
at
the

time
of
filming.
Consequently,
the
production
did
not
have
the
luxury
of
casting
a
dance
double
with
a

frame
more
similar
to
Saldana’s,
since
Ash
was
literally
the
only
available
option.
This
speaks
to
the

continued
dearth
of
black
dancers
in
classical
ballet.

In
the
real
world
of
American
dance
companies,
the
black
ballerina
is
still
such
a
rarity

that
the
few
representatives
have
either
become
heroized
to
the
point
of
fetishism,
or
lost
to

historical
obscurity
due
to
a
lack
of
prominence.
As
mentioned
above,
Aesha
Ash
was
one
of
the

only
notable
black
female
dancers
in
a
national
company,
and
even
with
that
distinction,
her

career
seems
to
have
been
compromised
or
forestalled.

Coming
from
a
working
class
background

but
displaying
precocious
talent,
Ash
began
training
at
the
School
of
American
Ballet
and
earned

acceptance
in
the
New
York
City
Ballet
in
1996,
several
years
before
she
was
cast
as
Zaldana's

body
double
in
Center
Stage.
However,
despite
her
considerable
skill,
physical
appeal,
and
stage

presence,
she
never
rose
to
the
ranks
of
soloist
or
principal.
The
reasons
behind
this
stasis
are

undoubtedly
manifold,
and
every
company
deals
with
the
complexity
of
logistical
decisions
when

it
comes
to
casting,
but
it
is
difficult
not
elide
some
of
her
professional
struggles
with
the
issue
of

her
race.
This
was
certainly
dance
columnist
Gia
Kourlas’
opinion
in
her
provocative
New
York

Times
article
“Where
Are
All
the
Black
Swans?”
for
which
she
interviewed
Ash:

Ms.
Ash,
an
enormously
gifted
dancer
who
performed
many
prominent
parts,
never

progressed
past
the
corps
de
ballet.
After
her
father
died,
she
said,
she
asked
Peter
Martin

404

the
company’s
ballet
master
in
chief,
for
a
short
leave
of
absence.
“He
actually
encouraged

me
to
leave
the
company,
because,
in
so
many
words,
he
told
me
that
he
didn’t
see
me
really

doing
any
more
than
what
I
was
doing
at
City
Ballet,
period”
93

Eventually,
Ash
left
the
company
in
2003
and
found
greater
fulfillment
and
lead
roles
in
the

Swiss-‐based
Bejart
Ballet;
later
she
returned
to
the
United
States
and
found
a
permanent
home
in

Alonzo
King’s
celebrated
Lines
Ballet
company,
a
contemporary
dance
troupe
that
specializes
in

abstract
pieces
that
deal
in
pure
form
and
physicality.

Although
not
explicitly
termed
as
a
“black”
dance
company,
Alonzo
King
is
an
African

American
man,
and
the
dancers
are
predominantly
black
or
mixed-‐raced.
Consequently,
the

promotional
material
for
the
company
falls
into
the
seductive
trap
of
racial
and
visual
fetishism.

The
publicity
photos
of
Lines
dancers
are
almost
unilaterally
shirtless
black
males—a
cursory

image
search
will
yield
hundreds
of
photos
featuring
exceedingly
muscular
men
in
states
of

undress.
These
images
glorify
their
admittedly
exquisite
definition
but
in
a
manner
that
is

markedly
different
from
the
classicism
and
restraint
utilized
by
more
“traditional”
(i.e.
white)

dance
companies.
Posters
and
promotional
ads
for
New
York
City
Ballet
and
American
Ballet

Theater
emphasize
the
costumes
and
sets
of
their
traditionalist
repertoire—not
the
sexualized

bodies
of
the
dancers
themselves.
The
Lines
Ballet
company
is
unquestionably
talented
and

striking,
but
it
problematically
relies
on
Othering
the
ethnic
dancer
and
foregrounding
the

racialized
dancing
body
as
something
primal
and
exciting.
Moreover,
the
black
dancing
body
is

still
coded
as
a
novelty—something
unique
that
must
be
handled
differently,
delicately,
or

heralded
with
specialized
attention.
And
yet
for
the
black
dancers
themselves,
companies
like

Lines
seem
to
offer
a
comfortable
refuge,
where
their
formerly
maligned
differences
that
set
them

apart
now
become
assets.
One
has
to
question
the
continued
disparity
between
these
ethnic

contemporary
companies
like
Lines,
Alvin
Ailey,
and
the
Dance
Theater
of
Harlem
juxtaposed
with

the
classical
paradigms
of
City
Ballet
and
ABT.
Do
the
latter
represent
a
vital
stronghold
of

venerable
ballet
tradition,
or
do
they
sanction
a
form
of
tacit
segregation?
Does
the
fact
that
the

African
American
dancers
themselves
have
agency
in
creating
these
companies
negate
the

continued
racial
inequality
that
exists?;
and
furthermore,
does
their
voluntary
participation

absolve
the
larger
arts
community
from
an
active
and
conscious
commitment
to
integration?

Despite
the
many
inroads
in
terms
of
equality,
ballet
continues
to
be
restricted,
as
Kourlas

addresses
in
her
article:

93

Gia
Kourlas,
“Where
Are
All
the
Black
Swans?,”
New
York
Times,
May
6,
2007.

405

The
reason
there
are
few
black
students
to
choose
from
is
complex.
For
Virginia
Johnson,
a

former
star
of
Dance
Theater
of
Harlem
and
the
editor
of
Pointe
magazine,
the
disparity

stems
from
three
issues:
artistic
vision,
economics
—
ballet
is
expensive
and
competitive

among
women
no
matter
their
skin
color
—
and
culture.
“It’s
hard
to
be
the
only
black

dancer,”
she
said.
“You
feel
separate,
and
you
feel
negated
in
a
certain
sense,
and
it’s
not
that

people
are
trying
to
make
you
feel
bad,
but
it’s
just
obviously
around
you.
Everyone
else
can

bond
by
similarity,
and
you
have
to
make
an
effort,
and
making
an
effort
makes
you
wonder,

‘Am
I
not
being
true
to
myself?’
It’s
hard
to
be
strong
enough
to
be
in
that
environment
and

to
not
feel
wrong.”
That
sense
of
alienation
contributed
to
Ms.
Ash’s
decision
to
leave
City

Ballet
after
seven
years.
“It
was
very
difficult,”
she
said.
“I
fought
my
way
through
the

school,
and
I
felt
like
I
continued
fighting
through
the
company
—
fighting
with
the
image

that
I
had
of
myself.”
94

Later
in
the
article,
Virginia
Johnson
reiterates
the
overall
lack
of
vision
and
widespread
risk

aversion
in
major
companies,
which
may
have
an
additional
economic
concern
that
impedes

progress.
She
suggests
that
successful
companies
may
actually
fear
the
market
implication
of

challenging
classical
expectations,
“…But
on
another
side,
the
side
that
they’re
much
more
afraid

of,
is
their
whole
subscriber
base
and
their
whole
history
of
being
a
ballet
company
the
way
you

thought
ballet
was.
It
means
that
you
have
to
create
a
kind
of
trust,
and
they’ve
never
challenged

their
audiences
to
move
forward.”
95

Aesha
Ash’s
career
trajectory
has
been
typically
overshadowed
by
that
of
Misty
Copeland,

who
is
now
currently
the
only
black
female
soloist
in
the
country
following
Ash’s
retirement.

Copeland’s
meteoric
rise
within
American
Ballet
Theater
and
her
pop
cultural
capital
has
been

aided
by
a
potent
mix
of
a
gripping
biography,
replete
with
tabloid-‐ready
custodial
drama,
and
her

well-‐publicized
prodigy
status.
As
a
relative
latecomer,
Copeland
started
ballet
at
thirteen
and

turned
professional
within
two
years.

She
has
strategically
taken
advantage
of
her
visibility,
and

become
a
cross-‐over
star,
performing
in
music
videos
with
Prince,
releasing
her
autobiography
in

2014
that
chronicles
the
hardships
of
being
a
black
dancer
in
the
white
ballet
world,
and
helming

a
television
campaign
for
the
sportswear
company
Under
Armor.
The
tagline
of
her
Under
Armor

commercial
introduces
the
campaign
mantra
stamped
across
the
screen
in
an
emphatic
font,
“I

WILL
WHAT
I
WANT,”
which
introduces
a
new
brand
of
performance
gear
for
active
females,

inspired
by
professional
athletes.
Copeland
is
notably
the
only
dancer
used
in
the
campaign,
and

the
other
spokeswomen
include
downhill
skier
Lindsay
Vonn,
tennis
player
Sloane
Stephens,

soccer
player
Kelley
O’Hara,
and
pro
surfer
Brianna
Cope.
By
including
Copeland
in
this
roster,

94

Ibid.,

95

Ibid.,

406

Under
Armor
is
clearly
intent
on
repositioning
ballet
as
a
true
sport,
rather
than
an
elitist,
frilly
art

form,
and
Copeland
becomes
the
avatar
for
their
updated
populist
vision.

Copeland’s
Under
Armor
ad
campaign
similarly
plays
like
a
synoptic
version
of
her

autobiography,
and
the
spot
titled
“I
Will
What
I
Want”
is
a
two-‐minute
commercial
with
a
voice-‐
over
narration
performed
by
a
little
girl.
The
speaker
(intended
to
be
a
fictionalized
projection
of

Misty’s
childhood
self)
reads
a
rejection
letter
from
a
ballet
school
rep
who
coldly
enumerates
all

her
shortcomings
and
all
the
reasons
this
prospective
dancer
will
never
be
a
professional

ballerina:

Dear
candidate.
Thank
you
for
you
application
to
our
ballet
academy.
Unfortunately,
you

have
not
been
accepted.
You
lack
the
right
feet,
Achilles’
tendons,
turnout,
torso
length,
and

bust.
You
have
the
wrong
body
for
ballet,
and
at
thirteen,
you
are
too
old
to
be
considered.

This
dejected
narration
is
visually
counterpoised
by
a
montage
of
Copeland
rehearsing
and

performing
in
revealing
Under
Armor
briefs
and
sports
bra,
all
of
which
highlight
an
athleticism

and
even
sensuality
not
typically
associated
with
the
ballerina.
High
definition
close-‐up
shots

lovingly
capture
the
detail
of
her
musculature,
emphasizing
her
shapely
legs
and
her
especially

toned
bottom.
In
the
realm
of
black
social
dance
and
music
videos,
the
female
“booty”
is
a

celebrated
icon,
the
subject
of
entire
rap
songs,
and
the
basis
of
much
hip-‐hop
choreography.
In

ballet
on
the
other
hand,
the
buttocks
is
maligned
as
a
totally
extraneous
and
undesirable

protuberance,
one
that
disrupts
and
compromises
the
classical
line
of
the
body.
A
curvaceous

booty,
so
revered
in
the
African
American
community,
is
total
anathema
in
the
ballet
world,
and

young
ballerinas
are
constantly
instructed
to
“tuck
in”
their
bottoms,
to
make
them
less

prominent,
and
ideally
nonexistent.
And
yet
in
this
commercial,
Copeland
serves
as
a
cultural

mediator
who
represents
the
height
of
achievement
in
the
ballet
profession,
and
yet
also

demonstrates
a
sex
appeal
and
robust
physicality
commonly
linked
to
black
females
in
the
pop

music
industry.
In
fact,
the
disjuncture
between
how
the
black
body
is
received
in
ballet
vs.

African
dance
forms
is
so
significant
that
Gottschild
devotes
an
entire
chapter
to
the
topography

and
culturally
ingrained
perceptions
of
the
black
butt:

This
is
where
the
black
fanny
butts
in,
and
why
it
has
to
be
“controlled,”
should
black

dancers
trained
in
traditional
Africanist
forms
hope
to
enter
the
white
concert
dance
world.

It
was
too
sexy,
and
the
black
female
buttocks
bore
the
brunt
of
this
criticism…The
concert

407

dance
and
ballet
milieus
aim
to
desexualize
and
invisibilize
this
part
of
the
anatomy
and

have
subjected
black
males
and
females
alike
to
a
scathing
buttocks-‐centered
critique.
96

In
contrast,
Copeland’s
duality
suggests
that
the
formerly
separated
worlds
might
be
productively

aligned,
that
there
is
a
chance
for
these
disparate
aesthetics
to
blend,
and
that
each
respective

dance
form—and
by
extension
black
and
white
culture—might
have
a
harmonious
union.
This

sentiment
is
the
foundation
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film,
but
like
those
fictional
(and
fantastical)

representations,
Copeland’s
commercial
also
has
its
limitations
and
circumscriptions.
It
is
a
two-‐
minute
moment
used
to
commodify
the
body
of
a
black
dancing
female
to
sell
products.
It
is

temporarily
inspirational
but
may
have
no
actual
lasting
social
impact
beyond
the
initial
moment

of
transmission;
however,
it
is
also
a
landmark
ad
that
will
be
memorable
for
its
visual
impact
and

its
use
of
a
verifiable
black
super-‐star
from
the
dance
world.
This
level
of
prominence
and
cultural

influence
is
double
edged:
Copeland
exists
as
a
role
model
for
countless
black
girls
and
urban

aspirants
who
have
been
discouraged
from
accessing
ballet
for
economic
and
socially
ingrained

reasons,
and
her
public
presence
and
charity
projects
are
meant
to
remedy
that
void.
However,

the
other
side
of
the
issue
is
that
Copeland’s
current
fame
is
entirely
due
to
her
race
and
rarity—
every
accomplishment
is
subtended
by
her
skin
color,
and
her
very
identity
will
always
be

bracketed
by
her
race.
She
will
never
simply
be
prima
ballerina
Misty
Copeland
but
always
known

as
the
lone
African
American
soloist
Misty
Copeland,
which
is
both
uplifting
and
disheartening.

American
culture
has
progressed
and
yet
the
performing
arts,
which
should
be
the
most
tolerant

and
humanist
arena,
continue
their
subliminal
segregation
that
particularizes
the
ethnic
ballerina.

The
sheer
absence
and
paucity
of
non-‐white
ballerinas
in
professional
companies
and

conservatories
across
the
country
are
accurately
reflected
in
the
dance
film
genre.
Ballet
films
are

mimetic
of
the
current
real-‐world
situation
and
the
discrepant
racial
representation
in
classical

concert
dance.
Ballet
and
the
perpetually
afflicted
ballerina
have
maintained
an
eminence
and

cultural
currency
in
the
popular
imaginary
and
a
hallowed
place
in
Hollywood
representation,
but

the
imagery
has
remained
fairly
static.
Ballet
based
films
prove
continually
relevant
and

appealing,
and
yet
the
art
form
remains
strangely
retrograde
when
it
comes
to
racial

representation,
both
in
cinematic
and
theatrical
casting.
Dance
is
supposedly
universal
and
the

transcendent
beauty
of
ballet
should
technically
be
available
to
anyone
who
shows
devotion
and

skill,
and
yet
the
color
line
persists
and
certain
barriers
remain
insurmountable.
For
all
its
good-‐
natured
charm
and
dazzle,
Center
Stage
passively
reverts
to
the
millennial
cant
of
professed

96

Gottschild,
The
Black
Dancing
Body,
148.

408

multiculturalism.
In
this
mode,
the
film
glosses
over
lingering
racial
tensions,
disparities,
and

injustices,
serving
up
instead
a
delightful
but
ultimately
distracting
ballet
fantasy.

409

9.
Go,
Team,
Go:

Cheerleading
and
the
Quest
for
White
Identity

Bring
It
On
(2000)
is
a
relentlessly
upbeat
and
at
times
satirical
film
that
represents
the
only

narrative
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle
that
actually
valorizes
white
culture.
Released
a
mere
three

months
after
Center
Stage,
the
film
dominated
its
August
opening
weekend,
ranking
number
one
at

the
box
office
and
becoming
a
hit
in
the
teen
market.
Delving
into
the
highly
specialized
world
of

competitive
high
school
cheerleading,
Bring
in
On
technically
falls
into
the
category
of
competition

dance
film.
However,
it
offers
a
twist
on
the
typical
culture
clash
that
subverts
expected
racial

binaries,
providing
key
plot
conflicts
and
a
new
perspective.
While
the
wholesale
absorption
and

commodification
of
black
culture
is
evident
in
every
Formula
Dance
Film,
here
not
only
do
the

characters
acknowledge
this
appropriation,
but
the
tension
is
literalized
by
a
blatant
theft
that

catalyzes
the
story:
the
white
cheerleading
squad
has
remained
the
reigning
champion
by
secretly

stealing
the
black
squad’s
moves.
Consequently,
the
film’s
central
plot
and
theme
become
about

white
repentance
and
the
eventual
acceptance
and
re-‐embrace
of
their
own
culture—whatever
that

culture
may
turn
out
to
be,
as
“whiteness”
is
notoriously
difficult
to
define.

Torrance
Shipman
is
the
newly
inaugurated
team
captain
of
the
Rancho
Carne
Toros
cheer

squad.
She
is
blonde
and
pretty,
with
taut
abs,
a
congenitally
perky
disposition,
and
an
even
perkier

ponytail.
Played
by
Kirsten
Dunst
at
the
height
of
her
popularity
as
a
millennial
It
Girl,
Torrance
is
the

protagonist
of
Peyton
Reed’s
surprisingly
wry
though
occasionally
regressive
comedy,
and
she

epitomizes
the
teenage
American
dream
of
wholesomely
sexy
femininity.

Embarking
on
her
final

year
of
high
school,
the
only
mild
discomfort
in
Torrance’s
charmed
suburban
life
is
that
her
steady

guy
(also
a
cheerleader)
is
matriculating
to
Cal
State
Dominguez
Hills,
and
that
her
mother
frets

about
her
prioritizing
cheer
over
academic
commitments.

Torrance’s
inexperience
as
team
captain

leads
to
some
shaky
moments
at
the
season’s
start,
causing
the
squad
(composed
of
a
stereotypic

host
of
gossipy,
bitchy,
and
ditzy
cheerleaders)
to
foment
doubts
about
her
leadership
abilities.
At
the

same
time,
a
handsome
offbeat
musician
and
his
sardonic
sister
have
enrolled
in
Rancho
Carne
High.

Cliff
is
coded
as
indie-‐cool
because
he
wears
a
Clash
T-‐shirt
and
favors
punk
rock,
and
we
know
his

sister
Missy
is
a
rebel
because
of
her
combat
boots,
swagger,
and
caustic
sarcasm.

Cliff
is

immediately
attracted
to
Torrance,
despite
her
ostensible
vacuity,
which
sets
up
the
requisite

romance
storyline,
while
Missy’s
presence
instigates
the
dramatic
conflict.
Despite
her
anti-‐social

demeanor
and
goth-‐girl
clothes,
Missy
is
actually
a
talented
competitive
gymnast
who
had
been

dedicated
to
the
sport
back
at
her
Los
Angeles
high
school.
At
the
cheer
tryouts,
she
dazzles
with
her

acrobatic
skills
but
when
asked
to
demonstrate
a
cheer,
her
inner
cynic
comes
out
in
a
biting

410

imitation:
“I
transferred
from
Los
Angeles
/
Your
school
has
no
gymnastics
team
/
This
is
a
last

resort!”
Insulted
and
not
amused,
the
rest
of
the
squad
is
ready
to
dismiss
her,
but
Torrance

recognizes
the
virtuosity
and
takes
a
chance,
asserting
her
authority
and
reminding
the
squad,
“This

isn’t
a
democracy,
it’s
a
cheer-‐ocracy.”

As
the
second
act
begins,
Missy—still
dubious
about
cheer
as
a
legitimate
sport—watches
a

Toros
rehearsal.
With
the
chipper
over-‐enunciation
particular
to
cheerleading,
the
squad
yells
out
in

unison,
“I
say,
brrrr
/
It’s
cold
in
here
/
I
say
there
must
be
some
Toros
in
the
atmosphere!”
They

break
into
a
dance
set
to
King
45’s
beat-‐box
hit
“900
Number”
and
attempt
an
attenuated
version
of

pop
‘n
locking
and
the
Harlem
Shake,
which
are
firmly
associated
with
black
dance
culture.
Not
only

does
their
interpretation
come
off
as
resoundingly
stiff
and
square,
but
it
serves
a
story
point
in

alerting
Missy
that
their
cheers
and
dance
moves
are
in
fact
stolen.
The
Toros’
version
of
the
stolen

cheer
is
key
to
the
racial
dialectic
in
Bring
It
On,
and
the
contrast
will
become
even
clearer
when
we

see
this
same
routine
performed
by
its
African
American
creators
in
the
next
scene.
After
this

dawning
realization,
Missy
storms
out
in
disgust
as
Torrance
initiates
a
heated
exchange:

Torrance:
What
the
hell
is
up?!
I
went
out
on
a
limb
for
you
and
you
just
bail!

Missy:

I’m
not
about
to
steal
anything.
You
ripped
off
those
routines.

Torrance:
Our
cheers
are
one
hundred
percent
original.
Count
the
trophies.

Missy:

Well,
your
trophies
are
bullshit
because
you’re
a
sad-‐ass
liar.

Torrance:
Ok
that’s
it,
get
out
of
the
car-‐-‐I’m
gonna
kick
your
ass!

Missy
stands
unperturbed,
the
visual
joke
being
that
the
white-‐bread,
diminutive
Dunst
will
not
be

kicking
anyone’s
ass—Torrance,
like
the
Toros
themselves,
puts
on
the
pretense
of
toughened
street

authenticity
but
is
merely
a
sheltered
white
girl
from
suburbia.

To
prove
her
point
and
force
Torrance
to
accept
the
truth
about
their
underhanded
winning

streak,
Missy
takes
her
on
a
sort
of
ethnographic
field
trip
to
East
Compton
High.

In
the
gym,
the
East

Compton
Clovers
cheer
squad
performs
their
routine
with
considerably
more
verve
and
style,
which

cements
the
impression
that
the
Toros
are
frauds
and
poseurs.
Unlike
the
Toros’
mechanized

imitation,
each
dancer
on
the
Clovers
squad
individualizes
the
steps,
mugs
for
the
audiences,
clowns,

etc.
The
Clovers’
movement
vocabulary
shows
how
comfortable
and
extempore
they
can
be,
adding

personalized
flourishes
and
playing
to
the
crowd.
The
originators
are
constructed
in
stark
opposition

to
the
peppy,
preppy,
and
precise
style
of
the
Toros,
whose
moves
are
whitewashed
and
divested
of

any
street-‐bred
looseness
and
ease.
Not
only
is
their
current
routine
stolen,
but
their
entire

411

championship
reign
has
been
based
on
theft.
Torrance
watches
in
horror
as
her
whole
existence

collapses,
and
she
is
wracked
with
guilt
and
disillusionment.
Dunst
plays
the
moment
completely

straight,
adding
to
the
comic
absurdity
of
the
situation,
which
posits
cheerleading
as
her
life’s
calling.

Distraught,
she
flees
the
gym
only
to
be
followed
by
Isis
(Gabrielle
Union),
the
Clover
team
captain.

Isis
and
her
crew
confront
the
interlopers
and
even
though
Torrance
was
not
aware
of
the
situation,

she
(and
by
extension
all
white
people)
is
implicated
in
the
theft,
which
has
apparently
been
going
on

for
years
and
was
perpetrated
by
the
former
team
captain,
Big
Red.
The
scene
plays
like
a

microcosmic
version
of
the
age-‐old
white
appropriation
of
black
culture,
except
for
the
fact
that

Torrance
feels
utter
remorse.

Once
the
secret
is
made
public
to
her
equally
clueless
squad,
they
argue
that
it
is
too
late
in

the
season
to
start
over
with
a
new
routine,
but
Torrance
has
a
firm
moral
code,
despite
her

ambition.
Regionals
are
fast
approaching,
and
the
results
of
that
competition
determine
who
qualifies

to
perform
at
Nationals,
where
the
Toros
have
enjoyed
unchallenged
dominance.
With
time
running

out,
they
contract
a
choreographer
named
Sparky
Polastri
(Ian
Roberts)
who
sweeps
in
like
a
hellish

combination
of
Bob
Fosse
and
a
Nazi
storm
trooper,
clad
in
leather
pants
and
spewing
insults
like
a

drill
sergeant.
His
asinine
routine
is
bad
enough,
but
when
another
squad
performs
it
first
at

Regionals,
the
Toros
learn
that
he
has
been
selling
the
same
hackneyed
routine
throughout
the
state.

This
scene,
with
its
bleak
reversal
of
fortune,
serves
as
the
archetypal
“disastrous
prelim”
where
a

humiliating
defeat
threatens
to
fracture
group
solidarity
and
leaves
the
protagonist’s
confidence

shaken.

Meanwhile,
the
Clovers
suffer
from
the
very
real
issue
of
economic
disadvantage
faced
by

urban
schools
and
minority
students,
since
they
do
not
have
enough
money
for
the
entry
fee
at

Nationals.
As
part
of
her
well-‐intentioned
but
paternalistic
bid
to
rectify
the
situation,
Torrance

solicits
her
teammates’
wealthy
white
parents
to
raise
the
money.

Isis
immediately
rejects
the
help

and
proffered
check,
offended
by
what
she
sees
as
a
gesture
of
charitable
condescension
and
false

absolution:

What
is
this,
hush
money?
Oh
right,
it’s
guilt
money—you
pay
our
way
in
and
you

sleep
better
at
night
knowing
your
whole
world
was
based
on
one
big
ol’
fat
lie.
Well

you
know
what?
We
don’t
need
you…
You
wanna
make
it
right?
Then
when
you
go
to

Nationals,
bring
it.

Don’t
slack
off
because
you
feel
sorry
for
us.
That
way
when
we

beat
you,
we’ll
know
it’s
because
we’re
better.

Instead,
the
enterprising
Clovers
utilize
the
system
and
turn
their
own
tale
of
underprivileged
youth

into
an
inspirational
media
coup,
by
soliciting
an
Oprah-‐like
talk
show
to
get
the
necessary
funding
to

participate.

412

The
tandem
romantic
plotline
proceeds
apace,
as
Torrance
realizes
her
current
boyfriend
is

not
only
dismissive
and
unsupportive,
but
that
he
is
cheating
on
her,
leaving
her
conveniently
single

for
her
true
soul-‐mate—Cliff
had
been
falling
for
Torrance
the
entire
school
year,
using
her
closeness

to
his
sister
Missy
to
make
overtures.
Their
courtship
follows
the
standard
flirtations,

miscommunications,
separation,
and
eventual
coupling
of
any
teen
film,
but
the
romance
plot
is

secondary
to
the
high
stakes
of
the
cheer
competition
and
the
lingering
issue
of
how
the
Toros
can

make
amends
and
stand
on
their
own.

Ultimately
the
Toros
must
reunite
and
shift
their
focus
to

choreographing
their
own
routine;
one
that
is
wholly
intrinsic
to
them,
their
training,
and
their

culture.
This
effort
culminates
in
a
montage
of
various
influences
that
is
collectively
intended
to

represent
white
culture,
which
I
will
discuss
in
detail
below.
At
the
Final
Competition,
The
Clovers

are
undeniably
better
and
win
first
place
at
Nationals,
but
the
Toros,
who
have
returned
to
their

roots
and
discovered
their
own
originality,
have
earned
a
moral
victory.

Cheerleading:
The
Dark
Horse
of
the
Dance
World

While
competitive
cheerleading
has
certainly
gained
legitimacy
over
the
last
decade,
as

attested
to
by
the
intensity
of
media
coverage
and
its
eminence
on
networks
like
ESPN,
the
form
itself

still
remains
a
misunderstood
hybrid.
As
Sparky
Polastri
bluntly
states,
“Cheerleaders
are

dancers…who
have
gone
retarded.
What
you
do
is
a
tiny,
pathetic
subset
of
dance.”
Cheer
is
not
quite

gymnastics,
although
it
certainly
employs
all
the
same
acrobatic
stunts
familiar
to
any
Olympian,

known
as
“tumbling”
in
the
cheer
world.
It
is
also
not
quite
dance,
since
the
choreographed
sections

of
a
cheer
routine
tend
to
defy
genre
categorization,
and
the
danced
portions
are
little
more
than

transitions
from
one
spate
of
stunts
to
the
next.
Then
there
is
the
cheering
itself,
which
is
the
most

antiquated
element
left
in
the
sport.
The
trademarked
clapping
and
saccharine
(or
sometimes

cheeky)
rhymed
cheers
involve
call-‐and-‐response
shouting
and
hearken
back
to
the
origins
of

cheerleading
when
it
was
to
used
incite
the
crowd
and
get
them
yelling.
The
original
cheerleaders

were
male
until
women
took
over
in
1923,
making
cheer
synonymous
with
female
passivity
and

objectification,
as
women
are
literally
sidelined
while
encouraging
active,
athletic
men.

Consequently

cheerleading
is
met
with
varied
responses,
as
some
regard
the
girls
as
enviable
teen
royalty
at
the

top
of
the
social
strata,
while
others
see
them
as
conformist
Barbie
dolls,
and
still
others
regard
them

as
serious
athletes.

Of
course
the
sport
has
now
evolved
considerably
and
the
actual
cheering
is
a
vestigial,

almost
nostalgic
nod
to
the
form’s
retro
origins.
Cheerleaders
still
perform
at
high
school
games
and

are
the
representatives
of
school
sprit,
but
for
the
advanced
squads,
these
half-‐time
appearances
are

413

incidental.
However,
the
presence
of
vocalization
tends
to
disqualify
cheer
from
being
received
as
a

purist
dance
form;
one
cannot
imagine
a
ballerina
hollering
at
the
audience,
and
the
emphasis
in
high

art
concert
dance
is
that
expressivity
comes
from
the
movement
and
articulation
of
the
body.
In
that

sense,
cheer
is
more
akin
to
college
step
shows
that
also
employ
chanting
and
syncopated
noise
to

accompany
their
footwork,
and
both
forms
were
bred
from
an
academic
environment
and
designed

to
enthuse
and
rally
a
crowd.

Those
unfamiliar
with
the
cheer
world
may
be
confounded
by
the
form’s
strange
and

seemingly
incoherent
mix
of
styles,
but
closer
examination
reveals
that
cheer
is
a
rigorous
and

demanding
sport.
The
men
and
women
of
competitive
cheer
perform
stunts
equal
to
any
gymnast
but

they
do
not
have
a
mat,
leading
to
some
serious
safety
issues
that
have
tarnished
the
sport
in
recent

years,
as
critics
and
concerned
parents
have
faulted
the
lack
of
regulation
and
proper
supervision.
In

the
late
2000s,
a
series
of
articles
and
exposés
revealed
the
darker
side
of
this
American
past-‐time,

fueled
by
published
results
from
the
National
Center
for
Catastrophic
Sports
Injury
that
released
a

study
citing
cheer
as
the
leading
cause
of
debilitating
accidents
for
high
school
and
college
women.

Upon
the
release
of
these
findings,
numerous
news
outlets
fixated
on
the
topic,
capitalizing
on
the

story’s
combination
of
pretty
young
girls
in
peril
and
the
value
system
of
American
sports.
In
2007

New
York
Times
writer
Bill
Penning
took
up
the
cause:

For
decades,
they
stood
by
safe
and
smiling,
a
fixture
on
America’s
sporting
sidelines.
But

today’s
young
cheerleaders,
who
perform
tricks
once
reserved
for
trapeze
artists,
may
be
in

more
peril
than
any
female
athletes
in
the
country.
Emergency
room
visits
for
cheerleading

injuries
nationwide
have
more
than
doubled
since
the
early
1990s,
far
outpacing
the
growth

in
the
number
of
cheerleaders,
and
the
rate
of
life-‐threatening
injuries
has
startled

researchers.
Of
104
catastrophic
injuries
sustained
by
female
high
school
and
college

athletes
from
1982
to
2005—head
and
spinal
trauma
that
occasionally
led
to
death—more

than
half
resulted
from
cheerleading,
according
to
the
National
Center
for
Catastrophic

Sports
Injury
Research.
All
sports
combined
did
not
surpass
cheerleading.
New
acrobatic

maneuvers
have
turned
cheerleaders
into
daredevils.
And
while
the
sport
has
retained
its

sense
of
glamour,
at
dozens
of
competitions
around
the
country,
knee
braces
and
ice
bags

affixed
to
ankles
and
wrists
have
become
accouterments
as
common
as
mascara.
97

Stunting
is
one
of
the
truly
unique
properties
of
cheer
and
it
involves
creating
complex

pyramids
out
of
human
bodies
or
most
commonly,
having
a
quartet
of
girls
orchestrate
a
series
of

lifts,
tosses,
and
balanced
poses.
There
is
no
immediate
equivalent
in
either
the
dance
or
gymnastic

97

Bill
Penning,
“As
Cheerleaders
Soar
Higher,
So
Do
the
Dangers,”
New
York
Times
March

31,
2007.

414

world,
although
a
quasi-‐antecedent
may
be
pas
de
deux
partnering
in
ballet,
where
the
male
lifts
his

female
partner
above
his
head
and
promenades
her
as
she
remains
delicately
motionless.
However

ballet
is
positively
static
in
comparison
to
stunting,
and
the
height,
velocity,
and
contortionism
cheer

requires
are
most
closely
paralleled
by
circus
performers.
The
stunt
team
consists
of
the

“flyer”
who

does
the
actual
tricks,
two
“bases”
who
hold
her
feet
and
propel
her
into
the
air,
and
the
“backspot”

who
supports
the
entire
group
and
who
is
responsible
for
catching
the
flyer
and
protecting
her
at
all

costs.
The
flyer
is
the
pinnacle
of
the
pyramid
and
she
executes
the
most
challenging
moves,
which

include
getting
thrown
into
the
air
and
managing
aerial
acrobatics
before
being
caught
in
the
cradle

of
her
teammates'
arms.
A
competition
squad
is
ranked
on
the
compilation
of
cheering,
stunting,

tumbling,
and
dance,
and
they
are
awarded
or
docked
points
for
precision,
clarity,
and
overall
style.

Due
to
the
difficulty
level,
stunting
and
tumbling
are
generally
ranked
higher
in
priority
and
merit,

with
dance
becoming
an
exuberant
supplement.

Today’s
cheer
squads
typically
employ
a
hip-‐hop
lexicon
in
their
choreography
and
they

perform
to
a
selection
of
rap
remixes,
but
the
dance
portions
are
typically
interstitial
interludes

between
the
vocal
cheering
and
the
stunting.
However,
while
cheerleaders
may
execute
the
familiar

moves
of
hip-‐hop
(booty
shakes,
locking,
etc.),
their
appearance
is
often
antithetical
to
the
moves:
the

classic
mini
skirt
and
sweater
have
undergone
some
contemporary
updates,
but
the
overall
effect
of

the
uniform
suggests
a
life-‐sized
doll,
complemented
by
child-‐like
hairstyles
(especially
pigtails)
and

extreme
hyper-‐feminine
makeup
and
glitter.
The
cheer
aesthetic
is
not
urban
or
sensual
or
especially

cool—it
is
a
glitzy
style
similar
to
ice
skaters
and
beauty
pageants
contestants,
which
gives
an

impression
of
sweetness
and
girlishness
that
belies
their
athleticism
and
contradicts
the
adult

sexuality
of
hip-‐hop
moves
and
music.
The
sum
total
of
these
disparate
origins
and
traits
means
that

today’s
cheerleading
is
difficult
to
categorize
and
rife
with
misconceptions.

The
first
act
of
Bring
It
On
suggests
that
it
will
be
an
energetic
dance
film
that
delves
into
the

largely
niche
world
of
competitive
cheerleading,
a
misunderstood,
often
derided
sport
that
does
in

fact
deserve
its
due
attention
and
respect.
The
film
has
some
of
its
best
moments
when
it
explores

these
insider
elements,
with
such
details
as
showing
the
“wolf
wall”—a
particularly
difficult

pyramid—
or
revealing
that
the
briefs
cheerleaders
wear
under
their
skirts
are
called
“spanky

pants.”
This
trivia
gives
the
film
a
realist
texture
and
intrigue,
especially
since
the
interior
workings

of
cheer
are
unknown
to
most
of
the
general
population.
The
Toros
are
a
tight-‐knit
subculture,
and

part
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film
protocol
is
to
shed
light
on
the
mores,
hardships,
and
habitus
of
a

particular
dance
form,
and
to
address
the
external
social
perceptions
about
that
particular
form.

415

Despite
the
massive
inroads
that
cheer
has
made,
there
is
still
a
significant
social
stigma:
the
girls
are

often
presumed
to
be
moronic
or
slutty,
and
the
male
cheerleaders
are
mocked
for
their
questionable

sexual
orientation.
In
Bring
It
On,
this
outsider
commentary
and
judgment
comes
from
a
pair
of

steroidal
football
jocks
who
serve
as
the
enunciators
of
perceptual
stereotypes.
They
continually

harangue
the
male
cheerleaders
and
make
tired
homophobic
remarks,
despite
the
fact
that
the

football
team
has
never
won
a
game.
The
running
joke
of
the
film
is
that
the
football
team
is
on
a

pathetic
losing
streak
while
the
cheer
team
is
the
heralded
pride
of
the
school.
No
one
watches
the

game
but
everyone
stays
for
half
time,
which
accurately
reflects
the
real-‐life
ascent
of
cheerleading
in

the
public
sphere.
When
Missy
justifies
her
disdain
for
cheer,
she
cites
her
athletic
prowess,
and

Torrance
counters
with
a
speech
that
captures
the
original
intent
of
the
film,
which
is
to
elucidate
the

inner
workings
of
this
dance
subculture:

Missy:

See,
I’m
a
hardcore
gymnast—no
way
that
jumping
up
and
down
and

screaming
“Go
Team,
Go”
is
gonna
satisfy
me.

Torrance:

We’re
gymnasts
too,
except
no
beam,
no
bars,
no
vault.
Ever
been
to

a
cheerleading
competition?

Missy:

What,
like
a
football
game?

Torrance:

No.
Those
are
like
practices
for
us.
I’m
talking
about
a
tournament.

ESPN
cameras
all
around;
hundreds
of
people
in
the
crowd,

cheering…

As
competitive
cheer
is
becoming
increasingly
recognized
for
sharing
or
even
exceeding
the
physical

demands
and
bodily
risks
of
traditional
sports,
it
has
risen
in
cultural
esteem.
This
shift
is
evinced
by

the
form’s
increased
professionalization,
the
addition
of
national
organizations
and
federations,
and

the
widespread
practice
of
referring
to
the
activity
as
“cheer
sport”
to
distance
itself
from
its
old

image
as
a
nubile
sideshow
act.
While
the
Cro-‐magnon
jocks
are
easily
ignored
because
of
their

intolerance
and
idiocy,
Cliff
and
Missy
also
serve
as
the
mouthpiece
for
the
common
prejudices
about

cheerleaders,
and
before
their
conversion,
they
are
resistant
skeptics
who
likely
mirror
the
reaction

of
many
audience
members.
Accordingly,
much
of
the
film’s
humor
and
heart
come
from
dispelling

the
myths
and
expectations
about
cheer.

Just
as
Bring
It
On
cleverly
deconstructs
the
cheer
world,
its
also
starts
out
promisingly

enough
with
its
unflinching
presentation
of
black
cultural
appropriation,
white
theft,
and
economic

paternalism.
Even
with
its
comic
trappings
and
bubbly
dance
numbers,
Reed’s
film
seems
like
it
will

also
embody
a
significant
social
problem
message.
However,
this
exploration
and
enlightenment
is

not
maintained
throughout
the
narrative.
By
the
time
the
central
conflict
ignites
(Toros
vs.
Clovers,

416

blacks
vs.
whites)
the
plot
and
thematic
thrust
of
the
film
begin
to
startlingly
transform
into
what

amounts
to
an
all
out
race
war,
where
the
repentant
white
appropriators
are
forced
to
first
define

and
then
embrace
their
white
roots
to
become
authentic
champions.
While
the
screenplay
addresses

gender
and
sexuality
in
a
witty
and
productive
dialogic
that
plays
with
and
subverts
stereotypes,
its

treatment
of
racial
issues
proves
more
complicated
and
contributes
to
the
off-‐kilter
tone
of
the
film.

Bring
It
On
is
billed
as
a
comedy
about
cheerleading
but
in
fact
harbors
some
very
dark
suggestions

about
race
relations
in
America.

“We
might
have
to
have
a
Rumble:”
Racial
Tension
and
Suburban
Imperialism

Interestingly,
if
Bring
It
On
were
simply
a
revisionist
project
meant
to
elevate
and
explain
the

misunderstood
world
of
cheer,
then
it
would
have
been
a
prototypical
Formula
Dance
Film,
but

Reed’s
comedy
has
a
vacillating
tone
and
an
ultimately
slippery
ideology
that
make
it
harder
to

categorize.
There
is
a
dark
humor
to
the
film
and
a
skein
of
social
satire
that
are
typically
absent
from

most
FDFs,
which
tend
to
be
literal-‐minded
romance
melodramas.
However
there
are
also
tensions

within
this
film,
and
the
direction
and
intended
target
of
the
satire
are
not
always
clear.
Some
of
this

ambiguity
can
be
ascribed
to
production
complications,
as
the
original
script
entitled
Cheer
Fever
was

by
all
accounts,
a
broad-‐stroke,
standard
issue
competition
film
until
director
Reed
oversaw

numerous
re-‐writes.
The
final
product
may
be
the
result
of
a
formulaic
but
earnest
script
about
the

cheer
world
getting
infused
with
the
Reed’s
own
inflections
and
his
penchant
for
edgy,
arch

comedies.
After
helming
Bring
It
On
as
his
directorial
debut,
Reed
later
directed
the
films
Down
With

Love
(2003),
The
Break
Up
(2006)
and
Yes
Man
(2008),
all
of
which
dexterously
mix
heartfelt

romance
with
a
trace
of
misanthropic
gallows
humor.

On
the
page,
Torrance
Shipman’s
character
is
fairly
one-‐dimensional
and
annoying,
and
in
his

audio
commentary,
Reed
claims
that
it
is
a
credit
to
Dunst
that
she
can
make
the
character
human

and
believable.
98

Torrance
does
have
a
slight
character
arc,
but
it
is
more
of
a
situational
ethical

crisis—her
world-‐view
does
not
necessarily
change
and
she
never
really
sees
the
conflict
as
a
racial

issue,
in
step
with
the
prevailing
colorblind
discourse
that
has
been
inculcated
in
schools.

Torrance

frames
the
issue
as
one
of
economic
disparity
that
necessitates
uplifting
the
underprivileged,
so
in
a

way,
the
film
itself
also
sidesteps
the
racial
issue
even
though
it
is
glaringly
obvious
and
embedded
in

the
dialogue.
Torrance
herself
never
utters
a
single
word
about
race—rather,
she
reconfigures
the

98

Peyton
Reed,
“Audio
Commentary,”
Bring
It
On
DVD,
directed
by
Peyton
Reed
(2000;

North
Hollywood
CA:
Universal
Studios,
2001).

417

issue
as
one
of
injustice,
guilt,
and
her
desire
to
correct
an
immoral
situation.
She
either
ignorantly
or

willfully
misses
the
point
and
the
incendiary
racial
element
inherent
in
her
dilemma.
Since
the
film

begins
quite
literally
in
her
subjectivity
(a
lengthy
dream
sequence)
we
tend
to
be
ideologically

aligned
with
Torrance,
but
her
sheltered
tunnel
vision
and
ignorance
of
larger
social
factors
make
it

less
appealing
to
identify
with
her
as
the
story
progresses.
Then
again,
she
is
an
attractive,
valiant

underdog
who
must
struggle
against
the
odds,
so
the
audience
is
habituated
to
take
her
side
in

accordance
with
narrative
standards.

Torrance
is
not
a
racist,
but
she
is
implicated
in
a
racist
system;
she
is
contrite,
yet
fails
to
see

the
bigger
picture.
She
is
only
able
to
comprehend
the
situation
as
an
individual
act
of
larceny,
but

she
misses
the
fact
that
she
and
her
squad
are
part
of
a
longstanding
practice
of
cultural

appropriation
and
downright
theft.
While
Torrance
stands
mute
when
it
comes
to
the
race
issue,

other
characters
voice
it
volubly
and
explicitly
in
dialogue
that
makes
the
racial
tension
inescapable,

resulting
in
an
oddly
uneven
film:
who
are
we
to
believe?
Do
we
side
with
the
Toros,
who
are
the

nominal
protagonists,
or
with
the
disenfranchised
Clovers,
who
are
positioned
as
both
antagonist

and
victim?
While
the
majority
of
Formula
Dance
Films
exhibit
this
same
blithe
and
sometimes

staggeringly
oblivious
attitude
towards
the
history
of
racial
appropriation,
it
is
the
central
conflict
in

Bring
It
On.
However
unlike
Save
the
Last
Dance,
which
retains
the
heavily
dramatic
tone
of
a
social

problem
film,
Bring
It
On
always
skews
towards
the
comedic,
and
its
ideological
core
remains

inconsistent
and
unstable,
especially
in
what
can
be
interpreted
as
a
discomfiting
return
to
“white

roots”
and
white
pride.

As
I’ve
argued
earlier,
the
opening
sequence
of
any
Formula
Dance
Film
has
the
multipurpose

function
of
setting
the
tone,
showcasing
the
forthcoming
aesthetic,
and
enticing
the
audience
with
a

self-‐contained
set-‐piece
that
guarantees
immersive
entertainment.
Bring
It
On
also
opens
with
a

dance
number,
but
it
is
an
intentionally
parodic
one,
and
it
serves
as
an
interesting
point
of
entry
for

discussing
the
constructions
of
race
and
culture
in
this
film.
The
opening
minutes
of
Bring
It
On
are

part
of
a
dream
sequence
and
a
direct
homage
to
classical
musicals,
which
instantly
situates
this
film

in
a
(white)
musical
tradition
rather
than
a
(black)
hip-‐hop
tradition.
While
it
quickly
dissolves
into

pure
fantasy,
this
number
initially
has
a
realist
style,
set
in
a
gym
and
staged
as
a
pep
rally.
However,

rather
than
performing
the
typical
cheer
moves
and
gymnastics,
this
is
a
definitively
Broadway-‐
esque
piece,
full
of
canons,
chorus
lines,
and
mobile
camera
work.
The
sequence
also
imaginatively

serves
as
exposition,
since
it
quickly
and
inventively
introduces
the
characters
and
sets
up
the

narrative.
Because
cheerleaders
actually
do
talk
and
chant,
it
makes
a
sort
of
sense
to
use
their

418

rhymed
cheers
as
narration
that
mercilessly
skewers
our
common
beliefs
about
cheerleaders
and

sets
up
the
story:

I’m
sexy,
I’m
cute
/
I’m
popular
to
boot.

I’m
bitchin’,
great
hair
/
The
boys
all
love
to
stare.

I’m
wanted,
I’m
hot
/
I’m
everything
you’re
not.

I’m
pretty,
I’m
cool
/
I
dominate
this
school.

Who
am
I?
Just
guess
/
Guys
wanna
touch
my
chest.

I’m
rocking,
I
smile
/
And
many
think
I’m
vile.

I’m
flying,
I
jump

/
You
can
look
but
don’t
you
hump!

I’m
major,
I
roar/
I
swear
I’m
not
a
whore!

We
cheer
and
we
lead
/
We
act
like
we’re
on
speed.

Hate
us
‘cause
we’re
beautiful
but
we
don’t
like
you
either/
We’re
cheerleaders!

The
squad
then
performs
a
roll-‐call,
effectively
listing
every
lead
actor,
and
we
learn
in
a
few
couplets

that
the
abrasive
former
captain
Big
Red
is
making
Torrance
her
successor,
“I’m
sexy,
I
scorch
/
But

now
I
pass
the
torch
…”
The
music
shifts
to
a
sumptuous
orchestral
score
and
the
camera
cuts
to
an

aerial
shot
of
the
newly
crowned
Torrance
as
she
gets
lifted
up
and
surrounded
by
a
kaleidoscopic

bouquet
of
pom-‐poms.
The
number
ends
with
her
suddenly
becoming
topless
in
front
of
the
entire

school,
and
we
realize
that
she
is
having
a
nightmare.
The
real
Torrance
awakens
with
a
scream
and

the
main
title
sequence
begins.
The
genius
of
this
pre-‐credits
prologue
is
in
its
playfulness
and

expediency—the
number
simultaneously
addresses
all
the
preconceived
notions
that
an
audience

would
have
about
cheerleading,
self-‐reflexively
acknowledging
the
worshipful,
jealous,
or
derisive

attitudes
cheer
elicits.
It
also
dispatches
with
the
pro
forma
exposition
scenes
that
weigh
down
the

early
moments
of
most
Formula
Dance
Films.
In
two
minutes
of
dance
and
cheer,
we
are
cued
to

Torrance’s
angst
about
the
upcoming
season
and
her
leadership
ambitions.
And
importantly,
this

number
establishes
a
cultural
lineage
that
will
become
key
in
the
Toros’
resurrection,
by
suggesting
a

direct
link
from
a
classical
musical
tradition
to
the
white
cheerleading
squad.
Although
this
scene

may
be
forgotten
by
the
time
the
narrative
conflict
resolves,
I
believe
it
is
a
significant
indication
of

the
films
problematic
message,
namely,
stay
true
to
your
culture
and
your
race.

The
dream-‐dance
sequence
itself
as
well
as
the
choreography
and
cinematography
directly

reference
musical
luminaries
from
cinema’s
past.
Busby
Berkeley
is
a
key
referent,
with
the
signature

overhead
geometric
shot,
as
well
as
the
military
regimentation
and
phalanxes,
and
the
imitation
of

his
famous
“beauty
shot,”
where
the
camera
tracks
forward
to
capture
each
dancer
in
all
her
glamour.

This
scene
also
references
the
lavish
dream
ballets
popularized
by
MGM
thanks
to
Gene
Kelly
and

Stanley
Donen,
where
a
character
can
indulge
in
a
fully
escapist
moment
of
dance
that
may
defy

spatial
and
temporal
reality.
Importantly,
these
musical
tropes
fall
into
the
province
of
white
artists

419

and
white
dance
tradition.
While
classical
musicals
were
undoubtedly
influenced
by
African

American
dance
forms,
and
some
even
employed
black
specialty
acts,
the
legacy
of
artists
like

Berkeley
and
Donen
is
more
readily
aligned
with
white
culture
and
the
studio
system,
which

historically
marginalized
black
performers
while
appropriating
and
refashioning
their
art.
The
fact

that
Bring
It
On
starts
out
in
this
musical
mode
within
Torrance’s
sleeping
subconscious
suggests
that

maybe
this
white
dance
tradition
was
the
answer
all
along—that
this
style
is
natural
to
Torrance
and

her
intrinsic
identity,
and
that
anything
else
would
be
a
facade.
Hip-‐hop
dancing
does
not
even

appear
until
much
later
in
the
film,
and
there
is
no
trace
of
street
dance
tradition
inside
her

subjective
dream
state.
Granted,
this
Broadway
number
is
a
fun
“hook”
and
has
expositional

purposes,
but
given
the
eventual
solution
to
the
Toros’
white
identity
crisis,
it
is
telling
that
in
her

fantasy
sequence,
Torrance
and
her
squad
are
engaged
in
a
more
“appropriate”
dance
form.
They

easily
inhabit
the
world
of
showtunes
and
kicklines
rather
than
forcibly
and
artificially
assuming
a

dance
form
that
is
supposedly
more
apposite
to
blacks.
At
heart,
Torrance
is
a
hoofer,
not
a
hip-‐
hopper,
and
this
opening
sequence
gains
accretive
meaning
by
the
third
act,
when
the
Toros
must

search
for
an
authentic
style
of
their
own.

After
the
sobering
realization
that
their
entire
championship
reign
has
been
based
on
theft

and
deception,
the
Toros
are
forced
to
create
a
new
routine
on
their
own
for
the
first
time.
The

solution
to
their
problem
stands
out
in
the
Formula
Dance
genre
and
may
be
one
of
the
most
original

yet
oddly
reactionary
in
the
cycle:
a
re-‐discovery
and
embrace
of
white
culture.
This
of
course

requires
the
film
to
define
exactly
what
constitutes
white
values
and
white
style
in
the
first
place.

Through
the
insistent
imagery
of
urban
dance
films
specifically
and
media
products
in
general,
we

have
established
that
blacks
are
cool,
blacks
have
innate
style
and
swag,
and
that
whites
borrow
or

steal
from
blacks.
However,
the
constant
paradox
and
crux
of
burgeoning
white
studies
is
that
we

have
yet
to
fully
delineate
the
borders
and
traits
of
whiteness,
and
it
is
this
nebulous
quality
that

contributes
to
hegemonic
dominance.
Whiteness
is
like
a
cipher,
at
once
everything
and
nothing,

impossible
to
define
yet
it
defines
everyone
else
through
comparison,
opposition,
or
negation.

As
the

unchallenged
normative
standard,
whiteness
circumscribes
and
controls
the
social
perception
of
the

Other,
as
Richard
Dyer
eloquently
states
in
White,
his
seminal
work
on
the
topic:

As
long
as
race
is
something
only
applied
to
non-‐white
people,
as
long
as
white
people
are

not
racially
seen
and
named,
they/we
function
as
a
human
norm.
Other
people
are
raced,

we
are
just
people…The
point
of
seeing
the
racing
of
whites
is
to
dislodge
them/us
from
the

position
of
power,
with
all
the
inequities,
oppression,
privileges
and
sufferings
in
its
train,

dislodging
them/us
by
undercutting
the
authority
with
which
they/we
speak
and
act
in
and

on
the
world…This
assumption
that
white
people
are
just
people,
which
is
not
far
off
saying

420

that
whites
are
people
whereas
other
colours
are
something
else,
is
endemic
to
white

culture.
99

When
it
comes
to
street
savvy
and
urban
style,
white
people
are
clearly
not
black
(in
the
adjectival

sense)
and
therefore
they
must
borrow,
absorb,
and
appropriate,
resulting
in
the
standard
cultural

makeover
and
fusion
template
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film.
But
when
these
white
suburban

cheerleaders
decide
that
they
need
to
find
their
authentic
selves,
it
requires
them
(and
the
audience)

to
actually
look
at
the
white
side
of
the
binary
and
determine
concrete
traditions.
This
means

expanding
beyond
the
current
parameters
that
include
defining
the
Occident
by
the
Orient,
or

highlighting
supposed
white
deficiencies,
i.e.
white
men
can’t
jump,
white
people
can’t
dance,
etc.
So

according
to
media
representation,
what
exactly
are
white
people
good
at
in
the
performative
realm?

The
most
obvious
answer
would
be
the
reified
high
arts,
like
ballet
and
orchestral
musicianship,

where
there
is
still
a
markedly
disproportionate
white
majority,
and
minority
performers
always

attract
specialized
attention
as
anomalies
or
curiosities—the
unfortunate
reality
is
that
a
black

ballerina
or
violinist
still
come
as
a
surprise.
But
beyond
the
hallowed
boundaries
of
high
culture,

what
else
are
white
folk
known
for?

Bring
It
On
attempts
to
answer
this
quandary.
In
a
rehearsal
montage
narrated
by
Torrance,
the

film
momentarily
becomes
a
literal
catalogue
of
supposedly
“white”
values,
traits,
and
talents.
What

should
be
a
celebration
of
origins
becomes
an
unintentionally
comic
and
surreal
exercise
in
trying
to

isolate
and
valorize
white
pursuits
and
white
dance
tradition.
Torrance
gives
the
cheerleaders
her

version
of
the
standard
Formula
Dance
battle
speech,
a
stirring
call
to
arms
in
which
she
encourages

her
beleaguered
squad
to
charge
into
uncharted
territory,
rediscover
their
strengths,
and
embrace

what
makes
them
special:

I’m
not
saying
it’s
gonna
be
easy.
It’s
gonna
be
hard
work.
We
need
a
new
routine.

Something
amazing
and
fresh—and
we’ve
got
less
than
three
weeks
till
Nationals.
But

if
we
can
do
it,
if
we
can
pull
this
off,
then
we
can
really
call
ourselves
original.
Now

who’s
with
me?...
We’re
gonna
devote
every
waking
hour
to
practice:
before
school,
in

between
classes,
and
after
school,
Afternoon
practices
will
have
to
be
twice
as
long.

We’ve
got
to
do
whatever
it
takes
to
be
in
perfect
physical
shape…But
that’s
not
all:

we’re
gonna
study
other
types
of
movement.
From
swing
dance,
to
interpretive

dance—
even
mime.
We’ll
draw
inspiration
from
martial
arts,
musicals,
everything.

You
guys
know
we’ve
got
the
talent,
we
just
gotta
work
our
asses
off
and
trust
our

instincts.

99

Richard
Dyer,
White
(New
York:
Routledge,
1997),
1-‐2.

421

Her
speech
dissolves
into
a
voice-‐over
narration
that
accompanies
a
montage
of
their
varying,

disparate,
occasionally
bizarre
endeavors.
According
to
the
narrative
logic
of
Bring
It
On,
a
uniquely

white
performance
tradition
can
be
distilled
as
follows:
the
Classical
and
Postclassical
musical,
swing

dance,
tae
bo,
modern
dance,
and
miming.
Apparently,
whites
can
comfortably
lay
claim
to
the

Hollywood
musical,
as
evinced
by
an
intertextual
shot
of
the
squad
watching
and
mimicking
Sweet

Charity
and
incorporating
Fosse
into
their
final
routine,
in
addition
to
the
opening
Warner
Brothers-‐
inspired
dream
sequence
discussed
earlier.
A
brief
shot
in
the
montage
shows
them
trying
to
learn

modern
dance
moves,
as
a
caricatured
bohemian
teacher
undulates
and
urges
them
to
imagine
they

are
flowers
that
“grow,
and
grow,
and
bloom!”
This
moment
lampoons
the
lyrical
poetic
pretensions

of
modern
dance
that
have
been
extant
since
its
cultural
eminence
in
the
1950s.
Similarly,
a
beret-‐
wearing
Parisienne
mime
in
full
makeup
demonstrates
signature
pantomimic
moves
for
the
squad.

The
mime
gag
is
meant
for
laughs,
so
again,
there
is
a
sense
that
searching
for
white
dance
tradition

is
like
scraping
the
bottom
of
the
cultural
barrel.

Conversely,
swing
dancing
is
also
coded
as
a
white
preoccupation
in
this
montage,
but
it
is

arguably
the
“coolest”
of
all
their
influences.
The
cultural
capital
of
swing
was
certainly
bolstered
by

the
reemergence
and
commercial
saturation
of
swing
dancing
around
the
film’s
2000
release—the

Cherry
Poppin’
Daddies’
hit
single
“Zoot
Suit
Riot,”
(1998)
and
a
spate
of
Gap
commercials
with

couples
dancing
to
Big
Band
standards
(1999)
created
a
cultural
flashpoint
that
showed
attractive

American
youth
jitterbugging
into
the
new
millennium.
In
these
media
products,
swing
dance
was

presented
as
a
white
dance
form
despite
it
being
a
black
invention-‐-‐an
appropriation
that
seemed
to

unconsciously
and
seamlessly
continue
the
historical
practice
of
effacing
racial
origins
and

popularizing
dance
forms
in
a
mainstream
arena.
Like
innumerable
dance
forms
before
it,
the

jjtterbug
and
Lindy
Hop
began
as
black
dance
styles
made
famous
at
the
Savoy
Ballroom
in
1920s

Harlem.
These
dances
were
eventually
absorbed
and
pasteurized
by
the
mainstream
as
the
blackness

was
systematically
wrung
out,
making
them
more
subdued
and
less
improvisational
and
sexual.
In

American
Allegory:
Lindy
Hop
and
the
Racial
Imagination,
Black
Hawk
Hancock
investigates
both
the

historical
evolution
of
the
dance,
in
addition
to
its
postmodern
revival
in
both
the
public
sphere
and

the
televisual
commercial
arena:

Reviving
the
Lindy
Hop
was
as
if
something
had
been
retrieved
out
of
a
cultural
vacuum.

This
cultural
form
was
something
so
archaic
to
most
that
it
was
revitalized
unmarked
from

its
racial
past,
free
of
its
own
history
of
conflict
over
identity
politics.
While
the
presence
of

both
blacks
and
whites
dancing
the
Lindy
Hop
during
its
prime
kept
a
sense
of
significance

of
its
African
American
roots
alive,
the
revival
in
the
1990s
served
to
completely
sever
it

from
its
African
American
context.
Without
addressing
this
context
of
the
cultural
form,
a

422

new,
more
eviscerated
form
of
cultural
appropriation
occurred.
Images
of
African
American

dancers
and
the
history
of
the
dance
were
almost
completely
absent…This
was
a
selective

revival
in
a
completely
new
cultural
context,
not
one
of
segregation
and
overt
racism,
but

one
of
multiculturalism
and
racial
diversity.
100

The
teenagers
in
Bring
It
On
display
this
same
type
of
unconscious
erasure.
The
fact
that
the
squad’s

quest
for
white
identity
is
predicated
on
assimilating
an
originally
black
dance
seems
to
replicate
the

initial
dilemma
of
the
film,
and
it
creates
a
doubled
recuperation
by
stealing
what
had
already
been

stolen
decades
earlier.
The
montage
is
a
knotty
sequence:
we
are
meant
to
steadfastly
identify
with

the
Toros
and
their
search
for
authenticity,
and
we
are
never
meant
to
question
their
innate
talent.

However,
their
search
is
still
questionable
since
it
lambasts
elements
of
white
culture,
suggesting
that

white
dance
forms
will
never
be
cool,
but
can
only
add
a
new
layer
through
the
postmodern
practices

of
recuperation,
bricolage,
and
pastiche.

Bring
It
On
faces
sizable
hurdles
in
terms
of
creating
narrative
conflict
and
goal-‐oriented

protagonists,
because
by
framing
the
Toros
as
our
leads,
we
desire
their
success
and
we
are
invested

in
their
devastating
fall
from
grace
and
eventual
redemption.

Torrance
and
her
team
are
meant
to

engender
our
sympathy,
and
her
guilt
and
future
exculpation
provide
the
film’s
moral
center.

Consequently,
the
black
squad
becomes
the
antagonist
by
default,
which
unfortunately
makes
them

an
automatic
nemesis
for
the
white
characters.
No
matter
how
scrupulously
the
film
assures
us
of
the

Clovers’
talent,
pride,
and
strength;
no
matter
how
much
charisma
and
dignity
Gabrielle
Union
brings

to
her
character
Isis,
they
are
still
coded
as
a
dark,
menacing
threat.
The
fact
that
the
featured
actors

on
the
squad
are
loud,
neck-‐rolling,
stereotypically
combative
black
females
only
reinforces
this

threat.
Additionally,
production
design
further
emphasizes
the
point
by
costuming
the
Clovers
in
a

conspicuous
color
scheme—red,
yellow,
and
green
stripes—which
is
emblematic
of
the
Rastafarian

flag
and
represents
strident
Afrocentric
ideology,
contributing
to
the
image
of
the
black
squad
as

militant.
The
Clovers
may
be
the
wronged
party,
but
they
are
far
more
intimidating
and
potentially

dangerous
than
the
innocuous
Toros.

When
Torrance
is
forced
to
drive
into
Compton,
she
is
not
only
out
of
place,
but
clearly

terrified
by
the
rough
milieu,
which
has
been
notoriously
memorialized
in
rap
lyrics
and
‘hood
films

as
the
locus
of
gang
activity
and
black
criminality.
As
Missy
laughs
about
the
volatile
situation
she

marvels,
“Wow
we
just
almost
got
our
asses
kicked
back
there,”
feeding
into
and
channeling

100

Black
Hawk
Hancock,
American
Allegory:
Lindy
Hop
and
the
Racial
Imagination.
(Chicago:

University
of
Chicago
Press,
2013),
15.

423

assumptions
about
racialized
behavioral
tendencies.
Later,
she
jokingly
claims,
“We
might
have
to

have
a
rumble,”
a
winking
reference
to
the
racially
based
turf
wars
of
West
Side
Story.
According
to

this
logic,
the
two
white
girls
would
get
their
asses
kicked
because
blacks
are
innately
physical,

violent,
and
aggressive.
This
is
not
simply
Missy’s
interpretation
of
the
situation—if
Isis
had
not

restrained
her
squad,
they
would
have
assaulted
the
trespassing
Barbies.
Conversely,
there
is

absolutely
no
suggestion
or
even
possibility
that
the
black
girls
would
be
in
any
sort
of
danger
or

physical
threat
should
they
venture
into
Rancho
Carne.
In
this
fictional
suburb
of
San
Diego,
with
its

wide
cul
de
sacs
and
adobe-‐roofed
tract
homes,
the
urban
blacks
may
receive
suspicious
glances,
but

they
would
not
be
in
any
immediate
danger,
whereas
the
white
girls
face
imminent
risks
in
black

territory.

In
fact,
when
Isis
and
two
lackeys
actually
do
crash
a
Rancho
Carne
football
game,
they

humiliate
the
Toros
by
performing
their
cheers
simultaneously
from
the
bleachers.

Far
from

crossing
enemy
lines
with
trepidation,
Isis
and
her
posse
brazenly
assault
their
rivals
in
this
cheer

battle
by
making
their
theft
evident
and
throwing
down
the
gauntlet
for
a
future
skirmish.

Unmasked
and
disgraced,
the
Toros
are
at
a
complete
loss
and
cannot
possibly
retaliate.

Peyton
Reed
claims
he
was
at
great
pains
to
provide
equitable
portrayals
and
to
convey
a

more
gladiatorial
storyline
where
two
equally
worthy
rivals
vie
for
the
title,
without
necessarily

ascribing
a
moral
superiority
to
either
side.
However,
the
sheer
screen
time
given
to
Torrance
and

the
Toros,
coupled
with
the
unspoken
but
ingrained
privileging
of
the
pretty
white
girl
in
distress,

will
inevitably
skew
this
film.
When
Dunst’s
tiny
figure
is
dwarfed
by
Union’s
tall,
muscular
frame,

she
is
(even
if
unintentionally)
placed
firmly
in
the
Lillian
Gish
tradition
of
the
imperiled
white

female
that
has
defined
cinema
since
its
inception
and
has
guided
both
explicit
and
inferential
racial

coding
for
the
last
century.
Isis
can
take
care
of
herself,
and
her
crew
can
“throw
down.”
The
sweet

and
guileless
white
heroine
on
the
other
hand,
needs
help
and
courts
audience
sympathy.
Thus
the

black
characters
become
the
de
facto
villains,
no
matter
how
rationally
aware
we
are
of
their

iniquitous,
marginalized
status.
The
Clovers
do
win
because
they
are
better,
but
we
are
meant
to

understand
that
the
Toros
enjoy
the
real
victory,
having
atoned
for
their
past,
worked
as
a
unit,
and

discovered
their
own
identity.
If
we
did
not
already
comprehend
this
message,
the
final
lines

between
the
united
lovers
underscore
the
lesson:

Cliff:

So,
second
place.
How
does
it
feel?

Torrance:

Feels
like
first.

As
mentioned
above,
the
white
characters
all
seem
blind
to
or
choose
to
ignore
the
palpable
racial

element.
In
fact,
on
no
occasion
does
a
white
character
ever
mention
race
or
the
words
“black”
or

424

“white.”
However,
the
black
characters
do
mention
race
and
become
the
mouthpiece
for
the
elephant

in
the
gym,
with
some
of
the
script’s
most
stinging
social
commentary.
When
a
frantic
and
horrified

Torrance
flees
the
East
Compton
gym,
Isis
and
her
posse
follow
her
out
into
the
darkened
street:

Isis:

Did
you
enjoy
the
show?

Lava:

Yes
were
the
ethnic
festivities
to
your
liking?

Isis:
Y’all
have
been
comin’
up
here
for
years
tryin’
to
steal
our
routines.

Lava:

And
we
just
love
seeing
them
on
ESPN.

Isis:
It’s
like
every
time
we
get
something,
here
y’all
come
tryin’
to
steal
it,
puttin’

some
blonde
hair
on
it,
and
callin’
it
something
different.
We’ve
had
the
best
squad

for
years
but
no
one
has
been
able
to
see
what
we
can
do.
Oh,
but
you
better
believe

all
that’s
going
to
change
this
year:
I’m
captain,
and
I
guarantee
you,
we
will
make
it

to
Nationals.

These
girls,
and
by
extent
the
film,
are
acknowledging
the
blacks-‐as-‐entertainers
trope,
and
they

accuse
Torrance
of
being
a
type
of
ethnographer
or
tourist,
wandering
into
the
deep
dark
jungles
of

South
Central
to
watch
the
natives
perform
their
tribal
dance.
Beyond
the
ethnic
fetishism,
this
scene

also
dramatizes
the
persistent
and
historically
rooted
thievery
of
black
entertainment
forms.
Isis

repeats
their
most
recently
stolen
cheer
and
stonily
says,
“I
know
you
didn’t
think
a
white
girl
made

that
shit
up.”

They
also
call
the
white
cheerleaders
“Buffies,”
referencing
the
archetypal
valley
girl

name
and
the
1992
movie
and
TV
show
that
made
the
name
“Buffy”
synonymous
with
airhead

blondes.
Again,
the
black
characters
continually
bring
up
racial
differences
and
use
them
as
ad

hominem
attacks.
They
are
highly
aware
that
this
situation
is
far
deeper
and
goes
beyond
an
issue
of

artistic
integrity,
economics,
or
inner
city
vs.
suburbs:
this
is
a
matter
of
black
vs.
white.
The
black

characters
know
this;
we
the
audience
should
know
this;
but
the
white
characters—perhaps
the

offspring
of
benevolently
liberal,
politically
correct
parents—do
not
seem
to
understand,
and
they
try

to
maintain
a
color-‐blind
mentality.

This
inconsistency
and
instability
in
Bring
It
On
may
have
been
caused
by
multiple
script

revisions
and
the
director’s
determined
attempts
to
refashion
the
black
characters
into
dimensional

human
beings
rather
then
blaxploitation
hold-‐overs.
Ultimately,
the
subtitle
for
this
film
could
be
“A

Tale
of
White
Guilt,”
and
for
all
its
entertainment
value
and
on-‐point
satire,
it
is
never
entirely
clear

where
the
ideology
of
this
film
rests,
making
it
yet
another
enjoyable
but
problematic
addition
to
the

Formula
Dance
filmography.

425

10.
Darkness
Invisible:
The
Step
Up
Franchise

As
the
longest
running
series
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle,
the
Step
Up
franchise
has
become
a

cottage
industry
unto
itself,
churning
out
genre
films
with
regularity
from
the
first
in
2006
to
the

most
recent
release
in
2014.
While
almost
every
other
Formula
Dance
Film
has
warranted
straight-‐
to-‐video
sequels,
only
the
Step
Up
series
has
managed
to
maintain
a
longevity
and
relevance
with

theatrical
releases.
These
films
tend
to
dominate
their
opening
weekend
box
office,
based
on
savvy

marketing
to
the
teen
demographic
and
a
commitment
to
escalation
in
terms
of
aesthetics
and

style—each
film
is
flashier
and
more
stylized
than
the
last,
as
the
filmmakers
and
choreographers
up

the
ante
with
the
dancing
set-‐pieces.
Beyond
the
signature
visual
design
however,
the
ideological
and

sociological
significance
of
the
entire
franchise
is
especially
fraught,
and
the
sheer
number
of
films

allows
us
to
trace
a
verifiable
trajectory
in
terms
of
racial
representation.
The
logic
of
the
Step
Up

franchise
divorces
hip-‐hop,
break-‐dancing,
and
street
style
from
their
specific
racial
origins
with
a

perfunctory
nod
to
class
conflict
but
a
disavowal
of
the
socioeconomic
exclusion
and
racist
practices

that
have
led
these
cultural
forms
to
originate
and
flourish
in
the
first
place.
By
focusing
on
the

aesthetic
virtuosity
of
dance
and
the
sensory
overload
of
formal
elements,
the
series
continually

distracts
from
or
entirely
ignores
the
sociological
implications.

Coextensively,
as
the
Step
Up
films

whitewash
the
racial
element,
they
have
also
become
increasingly
fantastical
from
a
formal

standpoint,
as
they
forego
any
pretense
of
realism
let
alone
the
gritty
urban
backdrop
that
once

defined
the
Formula
Dance
genre.

Progressively
sunnier
with
each
iteration,
the
Step
Up
films
have
the
plethoric
look
and
feel
of

a
theme
park,
with
major
cities
being
rendered
into
dazzling
cartoons,
abetted
by
a
reliance
on

gimmicks
like
3D,
which
needs
equally
aggrandized
settings
and
color
schemes
for
visual
impact.
The

cumulative
result
is
that
the
Step
Up
films
derive
a
sense
of
coolness
from
the
superficial
trappings
of

black
culture,
while
allowing
white
lead
characters
to
supplant
an
actual
African
American
presence.

Each
film
maintains
the
requisite
culture
clash
that
has
defined
the
genre,
but
instead
of

disenfranchised
black
characters,
the
white
characters
are
now
endowed
with
some
sort
of
economic

or
social
disadvantage
or
handicap
that
is
meant
to
serve
as
proxy
for
being
an
actual
ethnic
minority

in
a
marginalized
existence.
Seemingly
harmless
at
first,
the
series
becomes
increasingly
and

disturbingly
regressive,
as
it
not
only
recasts
and
reconfigures
black
struggles
onto
white
bodies
in
a

sort
of
ahistorical
vacuum,
but
it
also
replicates
the
more
pernicious
stereotypes
against
minority

races,
as
if
the
overarching
premise
of
cultural
diversity
absolves
the
films
and
filmmakers
and
gives

them
latitude
to
employ
offensive
and
archaic
tropes.

The
penetrative
popularity
of
this
franchise

426

makes
it
the
most
visible
and
therefore
the
most
powerful
of
the
Formula
Dance
Films,
and
it

requires
in-‐depth
analysis
and
deconstruction.

Step
Up:
Race
and
Erasure

Step
Up,
and
its
nearly
identical
four
sequels,
represents
the
culmination
of
the
Formula

Dance
Film
cycle,
and
perhaps
signals
its
end
as
a
genre
once
predicated
on
racial
and
cultural

diversity.
With
white
leading
characters
throughout
the
franchise,
mainstream
culture
has

appropriated
black
subcultural
practices
to
the
point
that
we
no
longer
need
a
black
dancing
body

anymore.
The
white
characters
inherit
an
accumulated
black
coolness
accrued
from
years
of
media

coding
and
representation.
If
we
are
to
subscribe
to
ideas
of
race
being
performative,
and
if
we

interpret
style
as
a
constructed
overlay
that
anyone
can
theoretically
appropriate
and
wear,
then

urban
black
coolness
gets
repackaged
as
just
one
more
superficial
option
in
the
mutable
and

malleable
postmodern
playground
of
identity.
By
this
I
do
not
suggest
that
one
race
can
and
should

claim
certain
cultural
forms
to
the
exclusion
of
other
participants,
or
that
whites
have
no
right
to
hip-‐
hop
(or
that
blacks
have
no
right
to
ballet
for
that
matter),
but
what
is
of
concern
is
the
seemingly

blithe
disassociation
of
black
culture
from
its
roots.
Allowing
mainstream
access
to
a
very
specific

subculture
without
acknowledgement
of
its
origins
causes
a
type
of
oblivious,
often
insidious
co-‐
optation
that
has
occurred
continually
throughout
the
history
of
African
American
arts,
and
it
defines

our
current
obsession
with
tasting
the
Other,
as
articulated
by
bell
hooks,
“Currently,
the

commodification
of
difference
promotes
paradigms
of
consumption
wherein
whatever
difference
the

Other
inhabits
is
eradicated,
via
exchange,
by
a
consumer
cannibalism
that
not
only
displaces
the

Other
but
denies
the
significance
of
that
Other’s
history
through
a
process
of
decontextualization.”
101

This
dilemma
of
appropriation
and
mass
dissemination
is
an
issue
that
many
subcultures

must
contend
with,
and
there
is
continual
internal
pressure
as
groups
must
confront
the
prospect
of

losing
the
insular
quality
of
their
practices
in
exchange
for
gaining
wider
influence,
“Contemporary

notions
of
‘crossover’
expand
the
parameters
of
cultural
production
to
enable
the
voice
of
the
non-‐
white
Other
to
be
heard
by
a
larger
audience
even
as
it
denies
the
specificity
of
that
voice
or
as
it

recoups
it
for
its
own
use”.
102

This
negotiation
is
evident
in
Step
Up,
where
the
undeniable
appeal
and

vitality
of
hip-‐hop
gains
a
cross-‐cultural
impact
at
the
expense
of
legitimating
its
highly
specific

101

bell
hooks,
Black
Looks:
Race
and
Representation
(Boston:
South
End
Press,
1992),
31.

102

Ibid,
31.

427

ethnic,
temporal,
and
regional
origins.
Hip-‐hop
and
break-‐dancing
are
cultural
practices
that

stemmed
from
oppression
and
served
as
outlets
for
a
subordinate
urban
underclass,
so
to
transfer

this
practice
onto
white
bodies
fundamentally
changes
the
nature
of
the
dance
and
its
function.

However,
through
a
subtle
and
powerful
denial,
the
Step
Up
franchise
does
not
acknowledges
this

shift.

Returning
to
hooks’
concept
of
being
changed
through
contact
with
the
Other,
in
Save
the
Last

Dance,
Sara’s
encounter
with
a
black
man
is
not
only
coded
as
forbidden,
exciting,
and
new,
but
she
is

also
profoundly
and
permanently
altered
by
the
experience,
which
is
what
hooks
sees
as
the
key

motivation
for
whites
who
seek
out
such
contact:

The
seductive
promise
of
this
encounter
is
that
it
will
counter
the
terrorizing
force
of
the

status
quo
that
makes
identity
fixed,
static,
a
condition
of
containment
and
death.
And
that
it

is
this
willingness
to
transgress
racial
boundaries
within
the
realm
of
the
sexual
that

eradicates
the
fear
that
one
must
always
conform
to
the
norm
to
remain
“safe.”
Difference

can
seduce
precisely
because
the
mainstream
imposition
of
sameness
is
a
provocation
that

terrorizes.
103

Within
this
framework,
Sara
moves
from
a
world
of
innocence
to
one
of
experience,
not
only
because

she
falls
in
love
and
gains
a
partner,
but
also
because
her
assumptions
are
challenged
and
reversed
as

she
gets
an
expanded,
more
nuanced
societal
perception.
Initially
naive
and
sheltered,
Sara

undergoes
a
real
change,
which
is
what
hooks
in
her
more
optimistic
musings
sees
as
the
politicized

potential
of
this
commodified
ethnic
flavoring—that
perhaps
the
well-‐meaning
whites
are
looking
for

true
change,
that
they
want
to
be
taken
out
of
their
comfort
zone
of
homogenized,
undifferentiated

mainstream
culture.
However
in
Step
Up,
the
beginnings
of
a
virtual
ethnic
tourism
emerge—we
the

audience
and
the
characters
in
the
diegesis
can
safely
access
and
enjoy
aspects
of
black
culture

without
having
to
commit
to
the
hardships
and
grim
realities
of
urban
life.
In
Step
Up,
the
basic

formula
of
the
cycle
is
in
place:
a
divergent
couple
separated
by
culture,
belief
systems,
and

ambitions
are
poised
to
be
romantically
linked
through
the
simultaneous
union
of
their
dance
styles,

namely
hip-‐hop
and
ballet.

In
this
process,
black
culture
is
conceived
of
as
a
destination
vacation,

like
an
adventurous
but
temporary
excursion
into
an
exhilarating
foreign
land.

The
opening
minutes
of
Step
Up
are
especially
rousing
and
emblematic
of
genre
logic.
Set
to

the
dark
and
driving
beat
of
Petey
Pablo’s
“Show
Me
the
Money,”
this
cross-‐cut
sequence
shows

street
dancers
juxtaposed
with
ballet
dancers,
and
these
contrasting
visuals
capture
the
scope
of
the

103

Ibid.,
22-‐23.

428

cultural
binary
that
undergirds
the
cycle.
The
hip-‐hop
dancers
are
all
black
and
they
perform
in
the

nighttime
streets
of
an
unknown
urban
alley;
in
sharp
contrast,
the
ballet
dancers
are
taking
a

conservatory
class
in
a
brightly-‐lit
indoor
studio
during
the
day.
The
antinomy
is
inescapable,
and
it

pitches
the
exciting
nocturnal
world
of
the
streets
against
the
controlled,
supervised
world
of

classical
tradition.
However,
this
sequence
operates
both
through
its
opposition
and
its
continuities.

The
editing
creates
a
strong
parallel
between
these
two
ostensibly
different
forms,
and
the
close-‐ups

showcase
their
equally
complex
movement
vocabulary,
the
intricacies
of
the
footwork,
etc.
Similarly,

both
ballet
and
hip-‐hop
are
shown
as
equally
rigorous
and
energetic.
However,
this
initial
visual

alliance
is
misleading—although
ballet
and
hip-‐hop
are
given
tantamount
importance
in
this
opening

sequence,
hip-‐hop
and
black
culture
still
have
primacy.
Despite
the
suggested
affinity
between
dance

styles,
this
is
not
actually
a
symmetric
relationship
or
a
two-‐way
street,
and
the
overall
ethos
and

affect
of
hip-‐hop
culture
will
ultimately
win
out
over
ballet,
which
presages
the
entire
narrative
arc
of

Step
Up.

In
the
film
proper,
it
is
only
when
a
classical
dancer
can
access
this
thrilling
subaltern
world

of
street
dance
and
its
concomitant
sense
of
freedom,
that
she
can
achieve
true
dancing
mastery.
This

montage
is
entirely
scored
to
a
rap
song,
which
is
appropriate
for
the
hip-‐hop
dance
and

simultaneously
endows
the
ballet
shots
with
an
added
and
unexpected
sense
of
cool.

While
ballet

and
hip-‐hop
may
have
similarities,
hip-‐hop
will
always
eventually
dominate
the
visual
and
sonic

landscape
of
the
Formula
Dance
genre.
By
inference,
this
injection
of
urban
cool
into
hermetic

classical
tradition
is
the
proposed
narrative
solution
for
the
film
as
a
whole.

First-‐time
director
Anne
Fletcher
proved
a
logical
choice
to
oversee
the
project,
and
she
had

already
established
a
respectable
industry
presence
as
a
dancer
and
choreographer
who
dabbled
in

the
emergent
Formula
Dance
cycle.
Fletcher
had
previously
choreographed
for
Bring
It
On,
and
she

later
provided
the
choreography
for
Step
Up
2,
which
echoes
the
production
practices
of
the
studio

era
musical
units,
where
the
same
set
of
skilled
personnel
would
return
with
each
project,
giving
the

final
films
a
distinctive
and
consistent
look.

In
this
first
and
seminal
film
of
the
Step
Up
Franchise,

misunderstood
protagonist
Tyler
Gage
(Channing
Tatum)
is
a
fairly
harmless
street
hood,
running

with
the
wrong
crowd
and
notably
the
only
white
member
of
an
all
black
gang
in
the
projects
of

Baltimore.
After
breaking
in
and
vandalizing
the
local
performing
arts
school,
he
is
arrested
and

forced
to
pay
off
his
debt
through
community
service,
including
custodial
duties
at
the
school.
While

washing
the
dance
room
mirror,
he
meets
and
falls
for
Nora
Clark
(Jenna
Dewan),
who
is
predictably

choreographing
a
piece
for
the
major
end-‐of-‐term
showcase
and
cannot
seem
to
find
a
worthy
dance

partner.
Their
courtship
is
initially
framed
by
antagonism
and
a
mutual
lack
of
understanding:
he

finds
her
prissy
and
conservative;
she
thinks
he
is
uncouth
and
loutish,
but
his
undeniable
(and
we

429

are
meant
to
believe
innate)
dancing
talent
convinces
her
to
give
him
a
chance.
When
she
assures
the

skeptical
school
board
director
that
he
will
indeed
take
this
role
seriously,
he
laughingly
says,
“”Y’all

talk
about
dancin’
like
it’s
rocket
science
or
something,”
which
efficiently
captures
the
spirit
of
the

Formula
Dance
ethos.
The
genre
steadfastly
maintains
that
true
dance
talent
emanates
from
within—
the
product
of
untutored,
natural
talent.

Significantly,
the
decisive
factor
is
that
none
of
the
male
dancers
in
Nora’s
department
can

actually
lift
her.
In
an
exaggerated
audition
montage,
several
candidates
attempt
to
catch
her
and
fail.

They
are
coded
as
small
and
effete,
eliding
classical
dance
with
emasculation,
which
is
blatantly

inaccurate
but
serves
to
code
Tyler
as
aggressively
heterosexual—his
size
and
hulking
physicality

make
him
a
hyper-‐masculine,
virile
counterpart
for
Nora’s
delicate
body.
When
Tyler
arrives
at
their

first
rehearsal
in
his
baggy
street
clothes,
Nora
asks
him
why
he
did
not
wear
the
expected
tights.
He

gives
her
a
leveling
looks
and
retorts,
“Does
it
look
like
I
own
tights?,”
attesting
to
both
his
rejection

of
classical
dance
tradition
and
his
own
resolute
heterosexuality.
Like
Save
the
Last
Dance,
Step
Up

retains
the
suggestion
that
hip-‐hop
requires
unadulterated
male
sexuality
and
power,
but
it
has

removed
the
potentially
uncomfortable
or
threatening
aspect
of
black
masculinity
from
the
equation.

Unlike
the
dark-‐skinned
Derek,
Tyler
is
simply
large
and
muscular,
but
he
is
still
white,
so
the

differences
between
him
and
Nora
are
only
superficial
and
without
the
pointed
plotline
of
interracial

romance.
If
blackness
is
used
as
a
spice—heady,
redolent
and
desirable—then
Step
Up
offers
the

audience
artificial
flavoring
without
the
troubling
presence
of
black
skin.
The
Other
may
be

seductive,
but
it
can
also
be
unruly
and
dangerous,
so
in
this
film
the
audience
gets
a
taste
of

something
different
without
delving
into
the
difficult
and
discomfiting
politics
of
difference.

Once
partnered,
Nora
upbraids
Tyler
for
his
lack
of
discipline
and
training
and
he
likewise
faults

her
for
her
studious
and
joyless
work
ethic—in
essence,
he
teaches
her
to
relax,
and
she
teaches
him

to
have
direction
and
dedication.
When
Nora
patiently
teaches
Tyler
the
basics
of
classical
technique,

he
gamely
attempts
pirouettes
and
pas
de
chats,
which
admittedly
look
awkward
on
his
bulky
frame.

These
moments
are
largely
played
for
laughs,
and
we
understand
that
within
the
Formula
Dance

universe,
it
is
not
incumbent
for
him
to
fully
assimilate
ballet.
Tyler’s
brief
foray
in
the
classical
world

is
strictly
comedic,
whereas
Nora’s
absorption
of
hip-‐hop
culture
and
liberated
dance
is
absolutely

essential
to
her
character’s
transformation
and
to
the
genre
as
a
whole.
As
she
struggles
with
the
new

routine,
Tyler
bluntly
states,
“It’s
just
stiff—this
whole
thing
is
stiff.
It’s
boring.”
This
unequivocal

critique
creates
a
space
for
the
inevitable
dance
style
fusion.

430

Their
personal
deficiencies
and
eventual
epiphanies
are
played
out
on
the
dance
floor
as
they

successfully
choreograph
a
dance
number
that
combines
their
respective
skills
and
gives
them
both
a

chance
for
success
and
happiness.
The
story
is
the
same
as
every
other
Formula
Dance
Film:
from
the

music
video
aesthetic,
to
the
star-‐crossed
love
story,
to
the
showstopper
in
the
final
act.
However,

Step
Up
has
very
different
implications
from
the
earlier
films
in
the
cycle.
Tyler
may
be
poor,
and
he

lacks
a
certain
cultural
polish
and
education,
but
his
white
skin
will
always
allow
him
access
to
the

dominant
culture
if
he
so
desires.
Self-‐improvement
and
upward
mobility
are
achievable
endpoints

for
him
if
he
applies
himself,
whereas
one’s
skin
color
cannot
be
changed.
Tyler’s
ghetto
diction
and

ignorance
of
high
culture
can
be
corrected,
and
he
can
buy
or
educate
himself
into
a
different
class

standing,
so
no
matter
how
insistently
the
film
tries
to
code
him
as
an
outsider,
a
street
boy,
and
a

victim
of
perennial
alienation,
his
skin
color
makes
him
an
insider
in
a
way
that
Derek
could
never
be.

Ironically
the
educated,
well-‐spoken,
and
motivated
Derek
possesses
far
more
depth
and

intellectual
curiosity
than
Tyler
ever
demonstrates.
The
tragedy
of
Derek’s
character
is
that
he
exists

in
a
racialized
society
where
the
hierarchies
of
skin
color
mean
that
he
will
be
fighting
a
perpetual

uphill
battle
to
prove
himself
and
to
transcend
his
surroundings
and
the
assumptions
that
constrict
a

black
male
in
contemporary
society.
In
his
baggy
pants,
with
his
sullen,
street-‐based
speech
pattern,

Tyler
comes
off
as
a
bit
of
an
earnest
Neanderthal,
and
even
though
he
has
black
friends
and
lives
in
a

black
neighborhood,
the
film’s
logic
fails
to
convincingly
depict
him
as
a
minority
by
association.
For

example,
during
his
court-‐enforced
janitorial
service,
a
cleaning
montage
shows
various
instances

when
the
academy
students
treat
Tyler
like
an
invisible
non-‐entity:
they
thoughtlessly
track
mud

across
his
newly
mopped
floors;
they
don’t
seem
to
register
his
presence
as
he
vacuums
the
music

room
carpet,
etc.
In
essence,
Tyler
has
been
demoted
to
the
margins
in
terms
of
occupation
and
social

status,
creating
a
supposed
equivalence
with
minority
workers
in
menial
jobs.
The
montage

encourages
us
to
feel
for
his
plight,
but
the
fact
remains
that
a
white
male
with
a
mop,
is
still
a
white

male.

In
the
Formula
Dance
Film
cycle,
class
conflict
is
often
conflated
with
racial
conflict,
but
here

the
stakes
are
simply
incommensurate
to
that
of
Save
the
Last
Dance.
In
Step
Up,
the
characters
and

the
audience
can
enjoy
a
safe
and
sanitized
sojourn
into
black
culture.
We
get
to
sample
the
dance

moves,
the
music,
the
environment
and
all
the
accoutrement
of
urban
blackness
without
having
to

commit
to
it,
and
without
the
inevitably
distressing
questions
that
arise
when
dealing
with
a

storyline
about
racial
integration,
interracial
romance,
or
cultural
appropriation.
We
can
simply

enjoy
the
high-‐energy
visual
spectacle
without
having
to
contend
with
more
provoking
underlying

issues.

431

Although
I
have
focused
my
critique
on
the
disappearance
of
black
bodies
and
disavowal
of
black

origins
in
Step
Up,
it
is
worth
reiterating
that
all
Formula
Dance
Films
engage
in
a
teleology
that

valorizes
black
culture
as
the
ultimate
articulation
of
cool,
one
that
can
be
commodified
and

consumed
by
both
the
characters
and
the
audience.
Even
in
the
films
that
privilege
and
validate
a

uniquely
African
American
experience
(Stomp
the
Yard,
How
She
Move,
etc.)
black
culture
is
still

offered
up
as
an
enticing
flavor,
betraying
a
sort
of
cultural
tourism
and
neo-‐colonialism
where
the

desire
is
no
longer
to
subjugate
and
reform,
but
to
explore
and
sample.
There
is
a
safari
mentality
in

effect,
where
we
can
learn
about
another
culture,
take
home
some
souvenirs,
but
not
ultimately

change
the
existing
power
structure
and
racial
hierarchies
that
have
enabled
the
segregation.

Importantly,
the
trajectory
of
these
films
shows
the
infiltration
of
street
culture
into
the
refined

world
of
classical
tradition
(and
the
simultaneous
infusion
of
black
coolness
into
white
squareness),

but
there
is
never
the
suggestion
that
this
is
an
equal,
reciprocal
relationship.
Sara
may
influence

Derek
on
a
personal
level,
but
at
no
point
does
white
culture
influence
black
culture
as
a
whole,
and

ballet
never
makes
inroads
in
the
hip-‐hop
world.
This
ties
into
the
notion
of
ethnic
tourism
and
the

dominant
culture
consuming
the
Other,
as
if
a
minority
culture
is
a
trend
or
new
flavor
that
can
be

sampled,
assimilated,
and
just
as
easily
discarded.

This
one-‐way
diffusion
is
particularly
insidious
in
that
it
is
ostensibly
in
the
service
of

multicultural
appreciation
and
mutual
understanding.
In
contrast,
if
white
culture
were
to
heavily

influence
black
culture
in
this
film
cycle,
it
could
incur
accusations
of
imperialism,
as
if
whites
had
to

save
blacks
from
themselves
and
impose
dominant
standards
on
a
benighted
minority.
Consequently,

the
Formula
Dance
cycle
persistently
glorifies
minority
characters
and
culture,
and
there
is
an

inherent
danger
in
these
pro-‐street
films
when
they
distract
with
a
positivist
message
of
fusion
that

smoothes
over
the
fissures
of
race
relations
and
ignores
systemic
problems:
blacks
teach
whites
to
be

cool,
and
maybe
the
lone
exceptional
black
man
succeeds,
but
the
ghetto
population
remains
in

squalor,
crime,
and
desperation.
In
this
sense,
the
white
characters,
and
by
extension
the
audience,

can
go
on
safari
into
the
‘hood
and
leave
with
the
satisfaction
that
through
the
fusion
of
culture,
the

combination
of
dance
styles,
and
the
symbolism
of
romantic
coupling,
the
crises
of
modern
day
race

relations
are
happily
resolved.
The
Formula
Dance
Films
boast
truly
virtuosic
performances
and

provide
undeniable
entertainment
and
pleasure,
but
somewhere
between
the
ballet
barre
and
the

inner
city
battles,
there
needs
to
be
a
space
for
politics.

432

Step
Up
2:
The
Streets
and
The
Return
of
the
Black
Buck

Step
Up
had
already
introduced
questionable
elements
in
terms
of
racial
representation,
and

its
2008
sequel
continues
this
precarious
balancing
act
as
it
attempts
to
reconcile
the
complexities
of

race
and
dance
culture
within
the
expected
entertainment
format.
The
commercial
appeal
of
black

culture
has
become
so
ubiquitous
in
contemporary
society
that
the
elision
between
hip-‐hop
and

coolness
is
a
given—in
a
value
system
that
grants
primacy
to
the
streets
as
the
source
of
inspiration

and
freshness,
blackness
is
the
sine
qua
non
of
cool.
Consequently,
this
millennial
film
franchise
is

seemingly
unburdened
by
striving
for
positivist
racial
representation,
which
was
a
chief
concern
in

the
1980s
and
1990s,
when
media
producers
bent
over
backwards
to
provide
equitable
and

admirable
images
of
black
Americans.
As
discussed
in
the
previous
chapter
regarding
the
troubling

portrayals
in
Bring
It
On,
a
colorblind
mentality,
with
its
insistent
respect
for
black
culture,
seems
to

absolve
creators
and
producers
and
insulate
them
from
critique.
This
in
turn
allows
them
to
invoke

and
disseminate
stereotypically
negative
images
that
have
historically
haunted
and
hampered

African
Americans.
A
prime
example
in
Step
Up
2
is
that
the
main
antagonist
is
an
aggressive,
violent,

criminal
black
man
who
poses
a
serious
threat
to
the
white
romantic
leads
and
their
idealistic
haven

of
love
and
dance.

True
to
its
formulaic
nature,
the
Step
Up
sequel
is
essentially
identical
to
the

original
in
its
narrative,
tone,
and
aesthetics,
and
director
John
Chu
took
over
the
franchise
from

Fletcher,
who
remained
attached
as
a
choreographer.
The
sequel’s
alternative
theatrical
title
is
Step

Up
2:
The
Streets,
a
play
on
words
that
alludes
to
this
film’s
valorization
of
street
dance
and

subcultural
practices,
which
will
exist
in
conflict
with
institutionalized
classical
dance
form.
This
time

around,
the
only
major
difference
is
that
the
gender
and
class
affiliations
of
the
protagonist
lovers
are

reversed:
now
the
girl
(Andie)
is
the
street-‐wise
hip-‐hop
dancer
and
the
boy
(Chase)
is
the

constrained
classical
dancer
who
longs
for
release,
excitement,
and
urban
credibility.
While
Step
Up

introduced
problematic
representations
and
erasures,
its
sequel
faces
even
more
trouble
as
it

awkwardly
and
sometimes
offensively
negotiates
the
tensions
of
racial
representation.

If
Step
Up
appropriated
blackness
into
an
all-‐white
narrative,
then
Step
Up
2
is
even
more

disturbing
in
its
unintentional
but
nonetheless
shocking
regression:
rather
than
being
simply

laudatory
of
black
culture,
it
has
come
almost
full
circle
to
being
simply
racist,
with
a
highly

stereotyped
black
man
as
the
central
villain.
In
his
influential
work
Toms,
Coons,
Mulattoes,
Mammies,

and
Bucks,
Donald
Bogle
enumerates
the
pantheon
of
black
stereotypic
representation
in
film.
The

toms,
coons,
and
bucks
of
the
title
comprise
the
depictions
of
black
males
on
screen,
and
for
all
its

supposed
progressivism
and
celebration
of
black
culture,
the
recent
Formula
Dance
Films
display
an

433

unfortunate
reliance
on
these
tropes.
According
to
Bogle,
the
degrading
coons
“emerged
as
no-‐
account
niggers,
those
unreliable,
crazy,
lazy
subhuman
creatures
good
for
nothing
more
than
eating

watermelons,
stealing
chickens,
shooting
crap,
or
butchering
the
English
language.”
104

Less
comedic

and
more
threatening:

The
black
brute
was
a
barbaric
black
out
to
raise
havoc.
Audiences
could
assume
that
his

physical
violence
served
as
an
outlet
for
a
man
who
was
sexually
repressed…Bucks
are

always
big,
baddd
niggers,
oversexed
and
savage,
violent
and
frenzied
as
they
lust
for
white

flesh.
No
greater
sin
hath
any
black
man.
105

In
Step
Up
2,
this
regression
is
located
in
the
character
of
Tuck,
played
by
the
ironically

named
Black
Thomas.
Tuck
is
the
head
of
the
410—the
reigning
and
highly
competitive
dance
crew

in
Baltimore,
named
after
the
city’s
area
code.
Tuck
is
not
only
the
dance
captain
but
also
the

dictatorial
leader
of
his
crew
both
on
and
off
the
dance
floor.
Although
his
back-‐story
is
never
fully

fleshed
out,
we
do
learn
that
he
occupies
a
large
ramshackle
house
where
his
entire
dissolute
crew

seems
to
reside.
He
has
no
discernable
employment
and
when
not
dancing
or
menacing
the

protagonists,
he
is
lounging
in
the
squalor
of
this
decrepit
house,
surrounded
by
trashy
women
and

fawning
acolytes.
Though
it
is
not
made
explicit,
we
can
infer
than
without
a
normal
job,
he
is

involved
in
multiple
illegal
economies
like
drug
dealing
or
even
prostitution.
Although
Tuck
is
a

talented
and
virile
dancer,
in
these
domestic
scenes
he
is
depicted
as
indolent
and
domineering,

lazing
about
playing
video
games,
drinking
40s,
and
barking
off
orders
or
insults
to
his
devoted
gang.

In
this
manner,
the
film
constructs
Tuck
as
a
mix
of
the
coon
and
the
brutal
black
buck:
at
rest,
he
is

lazy,
indulgent,
slovenly,
gluttonous
and
frequently
shown
to
be
uneducated
or
stupid;
in
action,
he
is

highly
aggressive,
violent,
and
importantly
hypersexual
and
possessive,
especially
of
his
white
ex-‐
girlfriend,
which
plays
into
the
persistent
myth
of
black
male
desire
for
white
females.

Through
exposition
and
back-‐story,
we
learn
that
Tuck
had
once
dated
Andie,
the
petite

white
heroine.
This
allusion
to
their
past
romantic
relationship
is
likely
meant
to
assure
the
audience

that
Step
Up
2
is
steadfastly
progressive.
In
fact
we
are
probably
meant
to
admire
Andie
for
her

colorblind
and
politically
correct
romance
with
a
black
man.
Andie
conveniently
becomes
urban
by

association,
and
her
relationship
with
Tuck
is
undoubtedly
meant
to
secure
her
authenticity
and

104

Donald
Bogle,
Toms,
Coons,
Mulattoes,
Mammies,
and
Bucks:
An
Interpretive
History
of

Blacks
in
American
Films.
3
rd

ed.
(New
York:
Continuum,
1994),
8.

105

Ibid.,
13.

434

legitimate
her
as
a
street-‐wise
ghetto
girl.
However,
upon
closer
inspection,
this
depiction
of
the

black
male
is
retrograde
and
damaging,
rendered
all
the
more
troubling
and
hypocritical
because
of

the
film’s
professed
and
belabored
adherence
to
a
multicultural
mind-‐set.
Tuck
is
predominately

positioned
as
the
black
buck,
but
he
also
embodies
the
coon,
becoming
a
figure
of
comedic
effect
and

derision—the
joke
is
continually
on
him
and
we
are
meant
to
applaud
this
as
a
moral
comeuppance,

but
given
his
character
construction
and
the
taught
racial
lines
of
the
film’s
ideology,
these
moments

are
less
than
amusing.
For
example,
as
a
gauntlet-‐throwing
prank,
Chase
and
his
other
white
friends

secretly
place
a
large
dead
fish
in
the
crawl
space
of
Tuck’s
house.
Tuck
and
his
cohort
are

confounded
by
the
sudden
rank
smell
that
has
made
the
building
uninhabitable.
As
he
tries
to
locate

the
source
of
the
stench,
Tuck
rants
and
fumes
and
stomps
around
like
an
enraged
bull,
eyes
wide

and
rolling,
teeth
clenched
in
an
extreme
and
cartoonish
performance.
His
very
anger
and
apparent

stupidity
turn
him
into
an
absurd
clownish
figure,
and
when
he
finally
discovers
the
fish
(with
a

smirking
explanatory
note),
his
irate
outburst
and
humiliation
is
supposed
to
be
a
humorous
payoff

for
the
audience.
However,
when
the
only
significant
black
character
in
the
movie
has
been
made
the

butt
of
a
joke
and
forced
to
enact
Stepin’
Fetchit-‐like
physical
comedy,
the
joke
does
not
quite
work.

Inheriting
the
legacy
of
a
racist
cinematic
past,
Tuck
becomes
the
violent
hypersexual

buck,
the
foolish
aping
coon,
and
the
more
recent
incarnation
of
the
pimp
and
the
thug,
all
rolled
into

one
offensive
portrait.
This
PG-‐13
dance
romance
would
like
us
to
believe
that
he
is
the
antagonist

because
he
is
cruel,
controlling,
and
intent
on
separating
the
star-‐crossed
lovers,
but
his
continual

portrayal
as
a
dangerous
foe
stems
directly
from
the
stereotypic
black
characteristics
that
define
him

as
an
irredeemable,
one-‐dimensional
villain.
Beyond
his
behavior,
the
visual
difference
of
his
black

skin
plays
off
the
familiar
value-‐laden
dichotomy
of
black
and
white
in
Western
culture,
with
the

color
black
and
black
skin
becoming
synonymous
with
filth,
sin,
and
evil.
Tuck
is
depicted
as

animalistic,
acting
on
impulse
and
bestial
drives,
compounded
by
his
status
as
the
410
crew
leader,

which
turns
into
a
terrorizing
wolf
pack
as
the
drama
and
conflict
escalate.
In
retaliation,
Tuck
and

his
gang
members/dancers
confront
and
assault
Chase
on
a
darkened
street.

The
prototypical
ghetto

blacks
outnumber
Chase
and
savagely
beat
him,
and
the
attack
is
so
clearly
vicious,
unfair,
and

craven,
that
we
have
no
choice
but
to
loathe
and
fear
these
thugs.
Consequently,
Step
Up
2
ultimately

reproduces
all
the
most
potent
and
familiar
images
of
the
dangerous,
violent
black
man.
The
blacks

become
a
primitive
force
that
Andie
has
to
renounce
and
then
be
protected
from,
effectively
turning

all
black
people
into
the
enemies,
while
black
culture
still
remains
desirable
and
consumable.

435

Because
the
film
begins
in
medias
res,
we
learn
about
Tuck’s
relationship
with
Andie

through
allusion
and
dialogue.
In
this
manner,
the
script
establishes
a
diegetic
world
where
not
only

are
interracial
relationships
commonplace
and
unremarkable,
but
they
are
not
even
the
central
plot.

Her
ex-‐boyfriend
just
happens
to
be
black,
and
what
was
once
the
constitutive
dramatic
conflict
in
a

film
like
Save
the
Last
Dance,
is
now
just
an
incidental
back-‐story.
Step
Up
2
urges
us
to
believe
that

race
is
simply
not
a
big
deal
anymore,
that
in
this
hip,
multicultural,
integrationist
model,
the
issue

does
not
even
need
to
be
addressed.
This
potentially
effective,
even
heartening
gambit
posits
a

worldview
where
racial
difference
is
de-‐emphasized,
but
the
film’s
message
is
irreparably

undermined
by
its
return
to
the
black-‐as-‐villain
trope.
Temporarily
sanctioned
and
protected
from

accusations
of
racism,
the
filmmakers
are
given
an
allowance
to
indulge
in
the
worst
sort
of
profiling

and
gross
caricature.
This
common
tactic
creates
an
exemption
for
the
dominant
group’s
culpability

through
a
transference
that
reinforces
the
status
quo,
according
to
Childs
in
Fade
to
Black
and
White:

Representations
of
interracial
sex
and
relationships
allows
for
whites
to
maintain
the
myth

of
color
blindness
because,
as
Patricia
Hill
Collins
argues,
to
be
color-‐blind
we
need
to
see

color,
or
more
accurately,
color
safely
contained.
These
representations
include
racialized

comments
and
symbolic
images
of
difference
while
promoting
the
notion
of
color
blindness

by
placing
outright
opposition
and
racial
prejudice
as
existing
with
an
extreme
racist
group

or
bigoted
individual.
What
is
most
dangerous
about
contemporary
images
is
that
they
pass

as
positive
proof
that
racism
no
longer
exists
while
still
delivering
only
particular

derogatory
views
of
interracial
sexuality,
and
more
importantly,
damaging
stereotypes
of

African
Americans,
Latinas/os,
and
Asian
Americans,
which
allow
white
communities’
and

other
racial
communities’
coded,
racialized
thoughts
and
actions
to
go
unchallenged.
This

widespread
use
of
nonracial
and
coded
language
masks
contemporary
racism
and
prejudice

to
the
point
where
the
representations
are
actually
used
as
proof
that
racism
is
no
longer
a

problem.
106

Step
Up
2’s
nonchalant
presentation
of
an
interracial
romance
could
be
interpreted
as

progressive
until
the
central
romantic
storyline
gains
momentum:
although
they
come
from
wildly

different
backgrounds
(providing
the
requisite
culture
clash)
Andie
and
Chase
are
clearly
meant
to
be

aligned.
Accordingly,
the
film
posits
their
union
as
a
restoration
of
the
expected
natural
order.

Inferentially,
the
black
man
was
not
right
for
her—his
character
flaws
and
behavior
would
disqualify

him
as
a
viable
lover
anyway,
but
his
skin
color
also
marks
him
as
an
aberration.
Childs
argues
that

such
backhanded
methods
of
representation
create
the
appearance
of
tolerance,
without
actually

destabilizing
dominant
power
structures:

106

Erica
Chito
Childs,
Fade
to
Black
and
White:
Interracial
Images
in
Popular
Culture.

(Lanham:
Rowman
&
Littlefield
Publishers
Inc,
2009),183-‐184.

436

There
seems
to
be
a
desire
for
the
illusion
of
multiracialism
without
it
actually
happening.

While
there
may
be
some
variation
in
images
and
sounds,
the
underlying
messages
remain

where
interracial
relationships
are
problematized
even
if
for
different
reasons,
whiteness
is

not
challenged,
and
black
opposition
and
prejudice
is
made
visible
while
white
racism
is

allowed
to
stay
hidden.
107

Visually,
Tuck
and
Andie
do
not
belong
together,
whereas
despite
the
divergent
trappings
of
class

status,
Andie
and
Chase
are
ultimately
two
clean-‐cut
,
all-‐American
teens
who
are
suitably
matched.

As
such,
their
romantic
happy
ending
allows
Step
Up
2:
The
Streets
to
simultaneously
profit
from
the

excitement
of
black
culture,
while
maintaining
the
sanctity
of
white
hetero-‐normativity.

Step
Up
3:

Dance
in
New
Dimensions

Taking
its
cue
from
the
established
pattern
of
Step
Up
1
and
2,
Step
Up
3
(with
the
alternate

title
of
Step
Up:
3D)
continues
the
franchise
strategy
of
foregrounding
class
issues
and
economic

disparity
while
neglecting
racial
differences.
This
entry
(also
directed
by
Chu)
then
goes
a
step

further
by
constructing
a
filmic
world
where
the
valiant
underdog
dancers
have
willingly
become

part
of
an
oppressed
class.
In
service
of
their
art,
they
have
deliberately
and
consciously
chosen
a
life

of
social
and
economic
marginality,
and
the
film
attempts
to
frame
dance
as
a
misunderstood,

downtrodden
subculture.
The
dancers
themselves
are
then
depicted
as
a
persecuted
minority
group,

as
if
their
uncompensated
passion
and
commitment
is
akin
to
being
a
disadvantaged
ethnic
minority.

No
longer
about
race
or
even
racial
signifiers,
Step
Up
3
frames
the
primarily
white
cast
as

countercultural
fringe
dwellers
and
iconoclasts,
and
importantly,
there
is
a
new
emphasis
on

globalism
and
the
transnational
influence
of
dance.
As
the
midpoint
of
the
franchise,
Step
Up
3

represents
the
fulcrum
and
turning
point
for
the
series,
and
the
subsequent
films
(Revolution
and
All

In)
follow
and
then
amplify
this
colorblind
and
blatantly
fantastical
formulation.
In
the
first
two
films,

black
characters
were
replaced
by
white
characters
who
have
black
affinities,
but
in
Step
Up
3

onward,
cultural
practices
that
were
formerly
coded
as
black
(styles
of
speech,
dress,
and
dance)
are

eschewed
in
favor
of
a
multicultural
celebration
devoid
of
any
specific
racial
referents.
Hip-‐hop
is
still

the
prevailing
dance
form
(in
fact
there
is
no
ballet
or
classical
dance
in
this
entire
film),
but
the

moves
are
now
detached
from
their
cultural
origins
and
racialized
significance:
the
message
in
Step

Up
3
is
that
dance
is
for
everyone,
a
liberating
art
for
the
people,
by
the
people.
This
fictional
dance

world
is
a
dreamscape
of
unity
and
artistic
transcendence,
where
national
borders
and
racial
divides

have
conveniently
ceased
to
matter.

107

Ibid.,
172.

437

The
story
is
necessarily
basic:
Luke
(Rick
Malambri)
is
the
leader
of
a
group
of
wayward

youth
who
collectively
call
themselves
the
House
of
Pirates
and
live,
dance,
and
bond
in
an

abandoned
warehouse
known
as
The
Vault.
The
ground
floor
is
a
club
and
the
upper
levels
are
the

living
quarters
and
rehearsal
space,
in
an
eccentric
combination
of
Oliver
Twist
with
a
dash
of
Peter

Pan’s
lost
boys.
In
addition
to
serving
as
the
crew
captain
and
domestic
patron,
Luke
is
also
an

amateur
filmmaker,
who
keeps
an
ongoing
documentary
of
the
dancers
he
has
discovered
and

rescued.
The
narrative
stakes
involve
Luke’s
struggle
to
keep
the
bank
from
repossessing
and

auctioning
The
Vault,
which
has
been
left
under
his
care
after
the
death
of
his
equally
bohemian

dancer
parents.

While
Formula
Dance
dialogue
will
never
be
noted
for
subtlety
or
subtext,
this
film
is

particularly
obvious
when
inlaying
the
stakes.
The
dialogue
is
straightforward,
unequivocal,
and

delivered
with
a
stiff
but
earnest
insistence
by
the
actors,
none
of
whom
have
had
major
film
roles

before.
When
divulging
his
plan
to
use
a
newly
discovered
dancer,
Luke’s
lines
are
exceedingly
direct

and
literal:

Listen,
don’t
I
always
have
a
plan?
This
kid
Moose,
he
beat
Kid
Darkness
today,
and
he
did
it

with
style.
With
a
little
bit
of
training,
this
kid
could
be
the
spark
that
we
need
to
get

everyone
together
and
win
the
$100,000
from
World
Jam
and
pay
back
what
we
owe.
We’re

not
gonna
lose
The
Vault,
ok,
I
won’t
let
that
happen.

In
addition
to
the
effacement
of
blackness
in
favor
of
a
more
neutral
appeal,
the
dramatic
stakes
and

the
screenplay
itself
have
a
decidedly
more
innocent
and
even
wholesome
feel
than
earlier
films.

Even
the
plot
has
a
retro
sensibility
reminiscent
of
studio
era
musicals—a
vintage
vibe
that
will
have

narrative
and
aesthetic
impact,
as
discussed
more
fully
below.

Simultaneously,
the
love
story
involves
a
mysterious
female
dancer
named
Natalie
(Sharni

Vinson)
who
enchants
Luke
at
The
Vault
with
her
raw
talent.
Their
wordless
courtship
is
achieved

entirely
through
dance
and
movement,
as
she
flits
around
the
club
like
a
futuristic
wood
nymph,

enticing
Luke
as
he
chases
her
from
room
to
room.
Once
caught,
Natalie
and
Luke
have
an
instant

chemistry,
and
he
enlists
her
in
the
House
of
Pirates
as
they
ready
themselves
for
World
Jam,
the
high

stakes
competition
that
will
provide
the
eventual
third
act
climax.
The
standard
Formula
Dance
Film

has
a
pared-‐down,
rudimentary
plotline
and
does
not
typically
have
a
secondary
narrative,
but
in
this

case
there
is
a
“B”
storyline
involving
the
character
Moose,
a
goofy
comic
relief
first
introduced
in

Step
Up
2,
and
whose
gangly
body
belies
his
amazing
physical
talent,
including
an
ability
to
mimic

almost
any
dance
style.
His
experience
and
foibles
as
an
NYU
freshman
include
trying
to
balance
his

academic
life
with
the
newly
discovered
world
of
dance
crew
battles,
all
while
trying
to
maintain
his

friendship
with
his
childhood
best
friend
Camille,
who
is
secretly
in
love
with
him.
Meanwhile
Luke

438

and
Natalie’s
relationship
develops
in
tandem
with
their
preparation
for
World
Jam
(rehearsal
and

romance
scenes
are
intertwined
and
equivalent),
until
a
reversal
of
fortune
occurs
with
Natalie’s
true

identity
is
exposed:
she
is
the
sister
of
the
Julien,
the
film’s
villain
and
the
Machiavellian
leader
of
the

rival
dance
crew,
House
of
Samurai.
Julien’s
scheme
had
been
to
send
Natalie
in
as
a
spy
to
seduce

Luke,
and
then
infiltrate
the
House
of
Pirates
to
observe,
film,
and
secretly
leak
their
moves.

Her

betrayal
(and
Luke’s
apparent
complicity)
ignites
the
pro
forma
group
dissension
and
fragmentation,

as
members
lose
hope
and
disband.
Eventually
all
is
well,
the
good
team
wins
World
Jam,
and
the

couple
overcomes
their
previous
discord
and
ends
up
happily
in
love.

In
the
final
act
at
the
climax
of

World
Jam,
a
minor
storyline
get
resolved
when
Natalie
leaves
a
goodbye
letter
for
Sean
informing

him
that
she
has
secretly
submitted
his
finished
documentary
to
a
Los
Angeles
film
school,
and
that

he
has
subsequently
gained
admission.
She
encloses
his
acceptance
letter
and
a
train
ticket
to
LA,
her

combined
act
of
enticement
and
contrition
with
an
offer
to
start
a
new
life
together
on
the
West

coast.
With
the
security
of
The
Vault
now
ensured
and
the
prospects
of
the
Pirates
on
the
rise,
Sean

and
Natalie
kiss
in
the
train
depot
and
the
final
credits
roll.

Step
Up
3
opens
with
raw
interview
footage
from
a
handheld
digital
camera,
as
a
random

assortment
of
young
dancers
answer
the
interview
question,
“Why
do
I
dance?”
Their
testimony

includes
intimate
personal
histories
and
descriptions:

Because
it’s
like
breathing,
like
walking
to
me…I’m
more
myself
when
I
dance
than
any

other
moment
in
the
day…I
dance
to
become
someone
else…There
are
so
many
things
in
the

world
that
want
to
push
down
on
you,
but
when
you
dance
you
are
free.

At
this
point,
these
people
have
no
concrete
characterization
but
they
are
clearly
part
of
a

documentary
about
the
passion
of
dance,
signaling
from
the
start
that
this
movie
will
be
about
the

democratic
and
empowering
nature
of
dance
as
a
populist
art
form.
In
these
opening
moments,
the

film
feels
like
an
authentic
documentary
in
the
vein
of
celebrated
ventures
like
Rize
(2005)
or
Planet

B-boy
(2007),
but
it
quickly
becomes
apparent
that
this
lens
and
hence
the
authorial
power
and

subjectivity
belong
to
the
protagonist
Luke,
who
is
chronicling
his
dancers
friends
on
camera.
After

this
cold
opening,
Luke's
v.o.
narration
takes
over
as
he
explains
how
dance
gives
him
purpose,
and

the
title
flashes
across
the
screen
in
a
highly
stylized
animated
graphic.
Luke’s
monologue
and

videography
introduce
the
motif
of
“Born
From
a
Boom
Box,”
which
becomes
the
raison
d’etre
and

mantra
for
his
cohort
of
displaced
dancers.
It
refers
to
a
type
of
person
who
was
born
with
an
innate

sense
of
rhythm,
for
whom
dance
is
intrinsic
and
paramount
to
any
material
concern.
Given
these

dancers’
disparate
but
purportedly
downtrodden
backgrounds,
dance
serves
a
haven
and
outlet
for

the
group,
“I
couldn’t
be
stuck
there
all
my
life…My
parents
didn’t
even
want
me
around

439

anymore…She
actually
kicked
me
out
of
the
house…Dance
saved
me…If
it
wasn’t
for
dance,
I
don’t

know
what
we’d
be
doing
right
now…”
Dance
is
shown
as
salvific
and
represents
an
escape
and
a

potential
future,
but
importantly,
their
current
struggle
has
no
connection
to
a
specific
racialized

oppression
or
economic
privation.
These
street
kids
are
ambiguously
defined
as
existing
on
the

economic
fringe
with
no
stable
home
or
family,
but
there
is
not
a
clear
sense
of
why
or
how,
or
the

specific
circumstances
that
led
to
their
haphazard
communal
lifestyle.
This
romanticized,
nomadic

conception
of
dancers
will
continue
to
dominate
the
ideology
of
the
franchise
from
Step
Up
3

onwards.

After
the
dance
crew
introduction,
the
secondary
narrative
begins
with
the
characters
Moose

and
Camille
beginning
their
first
day
of
college
at
NYU.
Moose
and
his
parents
are
overtly
coded
as

Jewish,
with
an
overbearing
fretful
mother
and
a
nebbish
father.
Both
seem
slightly
neurotic
and

overly
demonstrative
as
they
worry
over
their
baby
boy
leaving
the
nest,
and
his
father
immediately

provides
the
element
of
generational
rift
caused
by
parents
who
do
not
understand
their
kids,

“I’m

just
so
happy
you’re
done
with
this
dance
business.”
In
Formula
Dance
fashion,
the
adult
world
and

parent
culture
view
dancing
as
a
distraction
and
an
unproductive
waste
of
time.
Formula
Dance
Film

parents
frequently
rail
against
the
time
their
children
devote
to
what
they
see
as
a
pointless
or
at

least
impractical
hobby.
Moose’s
parents
will
never
appear
again,
but
they
effectively
set
up
the

oppositional
sides
of
a
potential
culture
clash.
Although
repressive
parent
culture
will
not
be
a
major

obstacle
in
Step
Up
3,
judgmental
adults
are
a
genre
staple
and
help
reinforce
the
sense
of
youthful

rebellion
that
accelerates
these
films,
especially
when
the
issues
of
urban
crime
and
race
relations

are
no
longer
a
factor.

As
a
newcomer,
full
of
nerves
and
aspirations,
Moose
is
the
audience’s
point
of
entry
into
the

story
as
we
accompany
him
on
a
rite
of
passage
that
is
the
right
of
only
certain
segments
of
the

population:
admittance
into
a
prestigious
university.
Even
at
this
early
stage
of
his
college
career,

Moose
is
technically
already
on
the
ascendance
in
terms
of
education
and
social
positioning.
By

virtue
of
his
race
and
class,
he
is
primed
for
normative
success;
he
has
access
to
higher
education
and

comes
from
a
loving
nuclear
family
who
has
clearly
supported
him
emotionally
and
financially.
The

only
potential
detriment
is
that
his
father
chidingly
dismisses
his
extracurricular
dance
activity,

though
this
is
in
no
way
comparable
to
other
Formula
Dance
Films
where
not
only
is
college
unlikely,

but
the
besieged
characters
are
lucky
if
they
can
stay
alive
and
unharmed
in
their
dangerous

neighborhoods.
Here,
Moose’s
major
dilemma
is
that
he
is
trying
to
please
his
parents
by
choosing
an

engineering
major,
even
though
his
he
has
no
passion
for
it.
Moose’s
only
real
bid
for
marginality

440

comes
from
the
fact
that
he
is
socially
awkward
and
quirkily
offbeat,
which
still
does
not
preclude

him
from
access
to
upper
echelon
activities,
employment,
and
acceptance.
In
a
filmic
universe
where

a
character’s
greatest
hardship
is
having
to
pick
a
boring
college
major,
it
is
not
surprising
that
Step

Up
3’s
moral
code
and
value
system
are
similarly
banal
and
simplistic.
Without
the
complexities
and

discomforts
of
racial
tension,
or
even
the
suppressive
power
of
an
authoritarian
ruling
class,
the

protagonists
and
antagonists
in
Step
Up
3
are
divided
into
the
plucky,
irrepressible
poor,
and
the

scheming,
nefarious
rich.
Notably,
the
central
heroes
and
villains
are
all
white,
all
dancers,
and
all

attractive
youth
in
their
early
twenties—the
only
difference
is
that
of
class
and
economic
power,
and

even
the
supposedly
“poor”
dancers
in
Luke’s
crew
are
there
by
choice.

As
Luke’s
foil,
Julien
is
cocky
and
combative
and
determined
to
not
only
defeat
the
House
of

Pirates,
but
to
destroy
Luke
and
everything
he
cherishes.
Their
rift
and
enmity
began
before
the

film’s
diegesis,
and
Julien’s
character
function
is
especially
efficient
in
that
he
multitasks
as
a

destructive
force
in
both
the
romantic
and
the
dance
plotlines:
he
is
a
rival
dancer
who
also
happens

to
be
the
brother
of
the
female
lead,
creating
a
triangle
of
divided
allegiance
that
forces
Natalie
to

choose
between
blood
relatives
and
familial
loyalty
versus
her
love
for
Luke
and
the
bonds
she
has

created
with
her
honorary
dancing
family.

While
Julien’s
lack
of
honor
and
ruthless
pursuit
of
victory

would
already
designate
him
as
a
villain,
the
moral
terrain
of
Step
Up
3
makes
it
clear
that
his
wealth

and
privilege
are
also
contributory
to
his
villainy.
He
is
not
automatically
evil
because
he
is
rich,
but

he
is
definitely
spoiled
and
accustomed
to
having
(or
buying)
power,
which
makes
him
callous
and

controlling.
While
we
can
assume
that
Luke
and
his
assembled
family
are
intrinsically
good,
there
is

also
the
suggestion
that
poverty
(albeit
a
voluntary
asceticism)
has
made
them
humble,
generous,

and
generally
ethical.
Julien
on
the
other
hand,
is
used
to
having
every
material
comfort,
and
this

allowance
affects
and
infects
all
his
endeavors.
There
is
only
one
scene
that
shows
his
home
life
with

sister
Natalie
in
their
Manhattan
townhouse,
but
it
communicates
a
hollow
emptiness
linked
to

excessive
wealth,
according
to
the
film’s
ethos.
Paid
for
and
tastefully
appointed
by
their
parents’

money,
it
is
expensively
furnished
and
palatial
by
New
York
standards,
but
it
is
also
austere,
dark,

and
cold,
suggesting
that
money
cannot
buy
warmth,
love,
or
domestic
harmony.
In
contrast,
the

chaotic
and
overstuffed
chambers
of
The
Vault
are
dingy
and
cluttered
but
undeniably
homey
and

inviting.
The
Vault
is
filled
with
the
crew’s
vibrant
energy,
and
they
are
brought
closer
together
by

their
impoverished
lifestyle
and
the
ingenuity
of
survival.

Julien’s
actions
and
behavior
are
enough
to
solidify
his
antagonist
status,
but
his
money
and

its
resultant
power
are
seen
as
synonymous
with
his
immoral
dealings,
and
Step
Up
3
makes
use
of

441

the
spoiled
rich
boy
trope
as
a
shorthand
characterization.

For
example,
during
one
altercation,
Luke

uses
Julien’s
wealth
as
an
ad
hominem
attack,
and
within
the
value
system
of
The
Vault,
this
is

actually
an
insult,
“When
we
win
the
World
Jam,
you
and
your
trust
fund
won’t
be
able
to
touch
us.”

The
righteously
poor
are
conceived
as
noble
and
with
pure
artistic
intentions,
whereas
the
rich
have

no
integrity
and
moreover
no
sense
of
imperative.
Julien
does
not
need
to
win
World
Jam—he
wants

the
title
for
bragging
rights
and
to
assuage
his
fiercely
competitive
nature,
but
the
financial
rewards

mean
nothing
to
him,
whereas
the
House
of
Pirates’
very
existence
hangs
in
the
balance
of
the

outcome.
Consequently,
Julien's
affluence
undermines
his
devotion
to
dance,
and
it
seems
like
an
idle

hobby,
as
opposed
to
the
House
of
Pirates
vagabonds
who
are
dancing
for
their
lives
and
livelihood.

However
it
must
be
noted
that
on
either
end
of
this
attenuated
economic
spectrum,
none
of
the

characters
face
the
imminent
danger
and
crippling
poverty
of
other
Formula
Dance
Film
characters.

If
it
came
down
to
it,
the
Pirates
could
get
real
jobs
or
finish
school.
This
slightly
compromised

conception
of
quixotic
self-‐sacrificing
artists
will
become
even
more
problematic
in
the
next
film,

when
self-‐imposed
poverty
is
again
championed
to
even
more
absurd
effect.
Step
Up
3
also
marks
a

shift
from
the
first
two
films
in
that
it
shows
true
affluence,
as
opposed
to
the
cultural
capital
of
high

art.
In
the
first
two
films,
opponents
from
the
high
culture
world
were
coded
as
such
because
of
their

humorless
traditionalism
or
elitism,
but
not
because
of
their
actual
financial
capital.
Here
however,

Julien's
money
is
a
direct
indicator
of
his
immorality,
as
if
wealth
is
a
causative
for
evildoing.
This
will

carry
over
into
Step
Up
4,
where
the
antagonists
are
once
again
ambassadors
from
the
mainstream,

but
instead
of
representing
one
side
of
a
cultural
schism,
they
are
vilified
by
their
wealth,
exploitive

powers,
and
avarice,
creating
a
simplistic
binary
view
of
rich,
wicked
white
people
versus
poor,

virtuous
white
people.

Corresponding
to
this
fable-‐like
construction
of
morality,
the
narrative
stakes
and
goals
in
Step

Up
3
are
likewise
old-‐fashioned,
and
comparatively
mild
when
viewed
alongside
other
Formula

Dance
Films.
Due
to
the
film’s
effacement
of
racial
concerns
in
favor
of
a
more
palatable
culture
clash,

the
chief
goal
(save
The
Vault)
and
the
rivalry
between
dance
crews
are
relatively
tame
and
even

antiquated
given
the
2011
setting.
While
virulent
racial
tension,
urban
violence,
and
hate
crimes

occur
in
the
real
world,
Step
Up
3
offers
a
sanitized
world
where
the
worst
thing
that
can
possibly

happen
is
that
a
rival
crew
steals
your
moves
before
the
big
competition,
or
that
your
converted

dance
studio
haven
might
be
repossessed
by
the
bank—there
is
no
sense
of
imminent
bodily
threat,

incarceration,
or
a
descent
into
desperate
poverty
as
there
are
in
other
films
from
the
cycle.
The

rivalry
and
gauntlet–throwing
between
the
House
of
Pirates
and
House
of
Samurai
are
strongly

reminiscent
of
West
Side
Story,
where
battling
street
gangs
grand
jete
through
a
fantasy
soundstage

442

of
New
York
City
and
attack
each
other
with
choreography.
While
that
stylized
depiction
of
“gang

warfare”
worked
perfectly
for
a
definitive
musical
in
1961,
in
this
millennial
non-‐musical
dance
film,

it
feels
oddly
antiquated
and
out-‐of-‐step
with
contemporary
realities,
not
only
in
contrast
to
current

dramatic
films
but
also
in
comparison
to
other
Formula
Dance
Films.

In
earlier
FDFs,
the
dance
rivalries
and
battles
were
always
subtended
and
grounded
by
the

threat
of
real
violence
with
serious,
occasionally
deadly
consequences;
here,
the
competition
is
real

but
the
entire
scenario
is
toned
down
and
softened
with
a
wholesome,
retro
sensibility,
free
of
racial

tension
or
any
real
consequences.
This
tonal
shift
is
best
demonstrated
by
Moose’s
first
two
scenes:

in
one,
he
inadvertently
stumbles
into
and
challenges
several
House
of
Samurai
dancers
in
the
quad

at
NYU,
and
in
the
bookend
to
this
scene,
he
is
accosted
and
bested
in
The
Vault
by
Samurai
dancers

who
demand
satisfaction
in
this
ongoing
dance
duel.
After
being
humiliated
in
the
park
by
Moose’s

impromptu
showboating,
the
Samurai
seek
retaliation
in
The
Vault’s
first
floor
club
bathroom.
Moose

rounds
a
corner
in
a
portentous
slow-‐motion
shot
and
gets
“jumped”
by
a
surprise
attack.
The

ominous
music
and
camera
work
suggest
that
he
is
in
actual
danger
and
about
to
get
legitimately

beaten,
but
instead,
a
scowling
Samurai
dancer
confronts
him,
reveals
a
hidden
mini-‐speaker
in
his

coat,
and
proceeds
to
assault
Moose
with
dance
moves.
Moose
is
surprised
and
embarrassed
and

Luke
has
to
intervene
for
his
protection,
but
there
is
no
physical
violence,
no
actual
threat—it
is
all

fundamentally
safe
and
supervised.
This
is
a
world
where
dance
moves
are
weapons
and
racism
and

prejudice
have
magically
disappeared
along
with
the
realism.
As
expected
in
a
competition
dance

film,
there
is
still
tough-‐guy
dialogue
and
posturing,
but
it
is
all
softened
and
ultimately
harmless:

Kid
Darkness:
I
want
a
few
rounds
with
the
kid—We’ve
got
some
unfinished
business,
you

and
me.

Luke:
If
you
wanna
get
him,
you
gotta
go
through
us.

To
contextualize
this
bowdlerizing
tendency,
it
is
worth
noting
that
in
You
Got
Served,
one
male

character
is
savagely
beaten
and
left
handicapped
after
a
drug
deal
goes
awry;
Stomp
the
Yard
begins

with
a
gun
slaying
that
leaves
the
protagonist’s
younger
brother
dead;
and
the
central
action
in
How

She
Move
is
catalyzed
when
the
protagonist’s
drug
addicted
prostitute
sister
dies
of
a
heroin

overdose.
Even
the
first
two
Step
Up
films
were
grounded
in
a
recognizable
Maryland
with
a
nod
to

urban
sprawl
in
the
Baltimore
projects.
Here
however,
the
setting
is
completely
divorced
from
a

concrete
reality.
The
world
of
Step
Up
3’s
dancers
and
dreamers
is
more
akin
to
a
studio
backlot,
with

a
bustling
NYU
campus
and
the
seemingly
limitless
spatiality
of
The
Vault,
which
functions
as
a

glorified
soundstage
for
dance
numbers
without
a
finite
sense
of
scope
and
scale.
The
setting
of
Step

443

Up
3
is
one
large
musical
playground
for
the
idealistic
young
dancers.
It
has
little
to
do
with
the
actual

New
York
City
in
terms
of
topography
or
demography,
and
consequently,
the
harsher
exigencies
of

race
and
class
do
not
come
in
play.

Global
Dance:

Colorblind
Future,
Forgotten
Past

With
its
white
lead
characters
and
non-‐racial
culture
clash,
Step
Up
3
continues
and
then

expands
upon
the
traditions
established
earlier
in
the
franchise.
It
does
so
by
adding
a
globalization

element
drawn
from
the
universality
of
dance
and
its
ability
to
cross
or
even
obviate
national

borders
and
cultural
divides.
In
Step
Up
3,
the
high-‐stakes
final
performance—a
standard
climax
in
all

competition
dance
films—is
called
World
Jam,
and
this
name
is
especially
significant
and
indicative

of
the
film’s
overall
transnational
sensibility
that
frames
dance
as
raceless,
borderless,
and

completely
colorblind.
Unlike
the
Big
Bounce
from
You
Got
Served,
which
alludes
to
a
regionally
and

culturally
specific
black
dance
practice
of
“booty
bouncing,”
the
name
World
Jam
is
meant
to

highlight
the
widespread
accessibility
and
appeal
of
hip-‐hop
dancing.
No
longer
restricted
to
a

distinctly
African
American
experience
or
even
a
national
one,
the
lexicon
and
style
of
hip-‐hop
have

become
so
pervasive
and
legible
as
to
be
adopted
and
adapted
internationally.

Hip-‐hop
is
a
true

global
phenomenon,
and
while
Step
Up
3
may
gloss
over
the
realities
of
racial
and
cultural

divisiveness,
it
is
accurate
in
depicting
the
dance
form’s
world-‐wide
appeal.
This
sentiment
becomes

evident
when
examining
the
film’s
individual
dance
competitions
and
finale
at
World
Jam.
Viewed
in

succession,
these
prelims
and
the
final
showdown
create
a
trajectory
and
unmistakable
statement

about
the
proposed
future
of
dance
and
by
extension,
the
future
of
racial
and
cultural
understanding.

In
the
first
two
prelim
competitions,
the
setting,
participants,
and
visual
coding
of
the

opponents
create
an
over-‐the-‐top
racial
and
ethnic
milieu,
in
this
case
African
American
culture
and

Asian
culture.
As
if
the
narrative
progression
were
not
already
clear,
an
animated
graphic
zooms

across
the
screen
proclaiming
“World
Jam
Round
One:
The
Battle
of
Redhook.”
The
name
alone
is
rife

with
racial
implication,
as
the
Redhook
neighborhood
in
Brooklyn
is
a
famously
rough
and
crime-‐
ridden
community
associated
with
black
culture.
Redhook
has
been
portrayed
in
fictional
accounts

like
Straight
Out
of
Brooklyn
(1991),
a
seminal
film
about
black
street
life,
and
it
has
also
proven
a

fertile
terrain
for
Spike
Lee
and
his
Brooklyn–based
omnibus.
Accordingly,
the
challenging
Redhook

dance
team
is
an
entirely
African
American
step
crew
and
the
setting
is
meant
to
connote
a
street-‐
tough
ghetto
atmosphere—it
is
a
filthy,
dimly
lit
subterranean
room,
similar
to
the
underground

spaces
depicted
in
other
competition
dance
films.

The
step
crew
and
crowd
are
similarly
conceived

along
essentializing
and
stereotypic
lines,
and
the
MC
and
dancers
are
presented
as
being
literally

444

bestial.
The
bellowing
MC
sports
an
eye-‐patch
and
brandishes
a
massive
gnarled
staff
topped
with
a

ram’s
skull,
like
a
pagan
god
or
satyr;
the
dancers
themselves
are
dressed
in
jeans,
white
undershirts,

and
Timberland
work
boots—the
expected
traditional
garb
for
an
urban
black
male—and
they
enter

the
arena
with
growls
and
guttural
snarls,
as
if
they
are
too
feral
to
speak
intelligibly.
The
Redhook

choreography
enhances
this
impression
and
at
one
point,
half
the
crew
gets
down
on
all
fours
and

imitates
junk-‐yard
pit
bulls
while
the
others
pantomime
holding
a
leash,
implying
that
they
are

ravenous
beasts
that
need
to
be
held
back.
As
an
additional
effect,
the
Redhook
crew
uses
dirt
as
a

prop,
punctuating
each
movement
by
clapping
their
hands
and
creating
a
volcanic
spray
of
dust.
The

overall
impact
is
that
of
rugged,
ferocious
masculinity—all
dirt
and
grime,
sweaty
musculature
and

bare
skin.
In
contrast,
the
House
of
Pirates
with
its
attractive
motley
of
dancers,
looks
more

approachable,
less
threatening,
and
above
all,
more
diverse.
This
visual
diversity
and
generally
clean-‐
cut
aesthetic
become
key
to
differentiating
the
House
of
Pirates,
and
it
is
how
the
film
positions
them

as
the
more
likeable
team
and
the
future
of
dance.
Not
only
is
the
Redhook
crew
disturbingly

aggressive
and
animalistic,
they
are
also
racially
homogenous,
which
gets
reconfigured
as
being

racially
exclusionary.
They
end
up
looking
outmoded,
reactionary,
and
behind
the
times
by

preserving
an
all-‐black
cultural
practice.
In
reality,
step
shows
remain
a
rare
private
vestige
and

outlet
for
black
youth,
and
it
is
a
uniquely
African
American
tradition
that
represents
an
illustrious

history
of
social
progress.
The
history
and
the
importance
of
step
shows
provide
the
storyline
for

Stomp
the
Yard,
and
step
dance
remains
a
bastion
of
contemporary
black
culture.
However,
in
the

proposed
world-‐view
of
the
Step
Up
franchise,
these
groups
are
shown
as
being
no
longer
relevant.

Similarly,
the
second
prelim
is
constructed
along
equally
essentialist
and
ethnocentric
lines.

The
same
graphic
reads
“World
Jam
Round
2:
The
Battle
of
Gwai”
and
this
battle
depicts
a
generic

“Asian”
version,
based
on
Orientalist
stereotypes
in
the
popular
imagination.
Once
again,
the
rival

crew
is
racially
homogenous,
composed
of
all
Asian,
presumably
Chinese
dancers.
Just
as
the

underground
club
was
meant
to
convey
“blackness,”
the
Gwai
setting
is
like
a
chinoiserie
lacquer
box,

all
high
gloss
black
and
red
with
flourishes
of
gold,
adhering
to
the
most
over-‐determined

expectations
of
Asian
culture.
Even
the
dance
floor
itself
is
emblazoned
with
a
massive
gold
Chinese

coin
on
a
shiny
red
background.
In
this
case,
the
MC
is
a
Fu
Man
Chu
travesty
with
a
long
“coolie”

braid
and
beard.
The
all-‐Asian
crew
is
dressed
uniformly
in
stark
white
that
gives
the
impression
of
a

high-‐tech
futurism
supposedly
synonymous
with
Asian
culture,
while
the
House
of
Pirates
are

dressed
in
their
own
clothes,
contributing
to
their
variegated
appearance
and
apparent
authentic

individuality.
Adding
to
the
visual
and
symbolic
impact,
the
Gwai
dance
floor
is
surrounded
by

alternately
stoic
and
irate
Asian
businessmen,
gamblers,
and
possibly
gangsters,
who
throw
money

445

down
as
bets
are
won
and
lost.
The
fact
that
these
adults
with
possible
criminal
connections
are

betting
on
dancing
kids
gives
the
entire
atmosphere
a
somewhat
distasteful,
exploitative
edge,
and
it

capitalizes
on
the
imagery
and
representations
of
Hong
Kong
gangster
cinema.
Once
again,
the
Gwai

crew
is
positioned
as
an
obsolete
assemblage
that
is
not
only
old-‐fashioned
in
its
homogeneity,
but

also
imbricated
in
illegal
activity
and
venal
financial
gain.
The
House
of
Pirates
bests
them
not
only

because
their
dancing
is
superior,
but
because
according
to
Step
Up
3
logic,
they
are
the
wave
of
the

future:
dance
and
true
talent
outweigh
petty
racial
divisions,
and
artistic
passion
will
prevail

irrespective
of
color
or
culture.

Given
the
first
two
battles
with
their
implicit
critique
of
racial
homogeneity,
the
final
battle
at

World
Jam
is
a
necessarily
diverse
set-‐piece,
achieved
through
visual
design
and
choreography.
The

large,
spacious
room
is
brightly
lit
with
colorful
flashing
lights,
and
the
crowd
and
dance
crews
are
a

veritable
melting
pot
of
races
and
cultures.
The
packed
room
is
full
of
flags
from
every
nation
and

although
it
is
called
a
“battle,”
it
is
actually
an
arena
of
unity,
a
danced
version
of
the
idealized

international
summit
meeting.
The
competition
battle
borrows
the
language
and
symbolism
of

waging
war,
but
rather
than
being
truly
divisive
and
bellicose,
it
has
brought
a
diverse
people

together,
all
united
by
their
love
of
dance.
This
is
Step
Up
3’s
vision
of
the
future:
the
only
viable

option
for
postmodern
race
relations
is
to
have
a
full-‐fledged
multicultural
celebration.
Step
Up
3
is

essentially
a
cinematic
encapsulation
of
the
multicultural
movement
that
defined
and
buoyed
1990s

sociology
and
public
policy.
While
nothing
measurable
came
from
these
well-‐intentioned
attempts
to

integrate
multiculturalism
into
schools
and
the
work
place,
the
concept
of
one
harmonious
fusion
of

diversity
and
understanding
continues
to
infiltrate
media
products.
This
trend
is
evinced
by
the

frequency
of
advertising
images
and
commercials
that
boast
a
multiracial
cast
of
beautiful
people

meant
to
represent
a
rainbow
of
identity
in
the
service
of
consumerism.
Step
Up
3
taps
into
this

representational
practice
and
multicult
ethos
by
suggesting
that
the
only
path
for
the
future
is
via
a

post-‐race
world,
where
skin
color
and
national
identity
no
longer
divide
and
delimit
people,
and

where
the
power
of
dance
erases
arbitrary
and
socially
constructed
differences.
This
denial
of

legitimate
and
profound
difference
and
deep-‐seated
enmities
is
admittedly
naïve,
but
it
is
in
keeping

with
the
largely
fantastical
and
optimistic
direction
of
the
franchise,
which
becomes
increasingly

unrealistic
with
each
successive
film.

The
House
of
Pirates
is
undeniably
transnational,
with
a
truly
global
composition
that
is

explicitly
presented
in
the
opening
documentary
footage
(“Inglewood,
Argentina,
Koreatown,

Uganda,
Miami”).
However
despite
this
ostensible
diversity
in
the
fictional
dance
crew,
the
film
itself

446

is
still
a
white
narrative,
since
the
romantic
leads,
comic
secondary
couple,
and
antagonists
are
all

white.
Given
the
fundamental
importance
of
black
culture
to
the
hip-‐hop
scene,
there
is
a
marked

scarcity
of
actual
black
bodies
in
Step
Up
3.
In
fact
there
is
only
one
black
speaking
role
in
the
entire

film,
and
it
belongs
to
the
Ugandan
expatriate
Jacob
(Keith
Stallworth)
who
is
Luke’s
second-‐in-‐
command
and
embodies
the
mythology
and
tropes
surrounding
the
“wise
black
man.”
Because
Jacob

is
a
diasporic
immigrant
and
an
African
national
as
opposed
to
an
urban
African
American,
he
has
a

unique
characterization
aided
by
his
exotic,
lilting
accent.
He
is
cast
as
the
knowing,
intuitive,
and

almost
mystical
guardian
of
the
white
characters'
well-‐being,
and
he
exists
to
remind
Luke
of
the

pragmatic
pressing
realities.
Aside
from
his
introduction
in
Luke’s
documentary,
Jacob’s
first
moment

on
screen
is
to
alert
Luke
that
the
bank
is
looming,
“This
came
from
the
bank
today.
We’re
six
months

late
on
our
payments...They
want
the
money
and
if
they
don’t
get
it,
they’re
going
to
put
The
Vault
up

for
public
auction.”
Jacob
has
the
uncanny
knack
of
suddenly
appearing
at
crucial
moments
and

dispensing
information
in
an
almost
telepathic
fashion.
For
example,
even
though
Natalie
had

managed
to
infiltrate
the
House
of
Pirates
and
con
everyone,
Jacob
was
apparently
never
taken
in,

and
in
one
scene
he
manifests
out
of
nowhere
like
a
spirit
and
confronts
her,
albeit
in
his
typically

subdued
and
understanding
tone,
“You
have
a
choice,
you
know?…The
most
important
decisions
in

life
are
never
easy.”
He
does
not
judge,
but
only
adjures
her
to
be
honest.

Jacob
is
continually
portrayed
as
operating
on
a
different
existential
plane,
and
he
is
defined

not
only
by
his
maturity
but
by
his
spiritualist
calm.
Similarly,
when
Natalie
leaves
Luke
her
special

letter
at
the
Finals,
Jacob
apparently
had
foreknowledge
of
this,
and
he
simply
smiles
knowingly

when
Luke
opens
the
package.
This
moment
is
bookended
by
the
film’s
last
scene
when
the
lovers

finally
reunite.
Luke
tentatively
enters
the
train
depot
with
his
bags,
and
again
Jacob
mysteriously

materializes,
flanked
by
the
entire
House
of
Pirates
who
have
assembled
to
say
goodbye
to
Luke.

Again,
Jacob
has
a
satisfied,
benevolent
smile,
as
if
he
had
known
all
along
that
under
his
watchful

eye,
the
two
lovers
would
succeed
personally
and
professionally.
In
his
final
lines,
he
assures
Luke

that
he
will
take
over
guardianship
of
The
Vault,
thereby
securing
its
legacy.
Considering
his
minor

character
status
(only
four
scenes
in
the
entire
film),
Jacob
fulfills
a
very
important
role
and
is

entrusted
with
key
emotional
and
narrative
moments.
The
on-‐screen
efficacy
of
his
character—who

seems
to
have
no
autonomous
desire
of
his
own
and
no
personal
life
beyond
helping
Luke—is

cemented
by
his
physical
appearance,
accent,
and
national
origin,
all
of
which
convey
an

unquestioned
wisdom
that
is
the
province
of
exoticized
black
males
on
film.

447

As
a
mouthpiece
for
articulating
plot
points,
Jacob
not
only
provides
exposition
and
a

narrative
function,
but
he
also
serves
as
a
sort
of
guardian
angel
for
the
whites,
a
frequent
and

familiar
role
for
black
characters
who
become
savant-‐like
saviors
of
whiteness.
In
Black
Magic,
Krin

Gabbard
engages
with
this
cherished
Hollywood
construction
and
addresses
both
the
narrative
and

metaphoric
import
of
messianic
black
characters:

Recent
American
cinema
has
assigned
black
people
even
greater
responsibility
in
their

relations
to
whites.
Whether
or
not
they
are
on
the
screen—African
Americans
radically

transform
the
lives
of
white
characters,
usually
providing
them
with
romance
and
gravitas.

And
although
it’s
seldom
acknowledged,
representations
of
black
masculinity
now
provide

the
model
for
most
of
what
is
considered
white
masculinity,
especially
among
the
working

classes.
At
the
same
time,
however,
African
Americans
often
appear
in
films
for
no
other

reason
than
to
help
white
people
reaffirm
their
own
superiority.
Because
white
culture
has

assigned
black
culture
a
central
role
in
its
own
self-‐definition
while
simultaneously

marginalizing
or
erasing
black
people,
the
films
that
perpetuate
this
project
must
often

resort
to
what
I
have
called
magic.
I
use
this
term
literally
to
describe
a
group
of
films
in

which
African
American
actors
play
angels
who
improve
the
lives
of
whites;
I
use
this
term

metaphorically
to
describe
the
enchanting
effect
that
black
music,
black
sexuality,
and
other

aspects
African
American
culture
have
on
movie
characters,
more
often
than
not
when
the

characters
on
screen
are
white.
108

Even
more
potent
than
the
cool
black
character
teaching
the
uptight
white
character
to
relax,
the

magical
black
has
a
preternatural
ability
to
intimate
the
white
character’s
needs,
circumventing

trouble
and
guiding
him
through
his
challenges—all
done
in
a
selfless
manner,
since
it
rarely
benefits

the
black
character
directly.

Magical
blacks
appear
to
take
on
this
chaperone
role
out
of
love
for
their

white
companion,
and
although
it
is
ostensibly
a
relationship
of
parity
and
equality,
there
is
still
a

sense
of
servitude,
like
the
undeniably
close
but
still
hierarchical
relationship
that
a
slave
master

would
have
with
his
bondservant.

On
a
larger
scale,
the
strategic
deployment
of
a
magical
black

character
mirrors
and
magnifies
the
entire
displacement
mechanism
of
the
Formula
Dance
Film.
The

presence
of
a
selfless
black
figure
working
harmoniously
with
a
white
protagonist
temporarily
erases

the
specter
of
racial
tension
in
favor
of
a
symbiotic
utopia.
However
as
Gabbard
notes,
in
the
black

angel
archetype
in
general,
(and
urban
dance
film
specifically),
the
underlying
issues
remain

untouched:

When
white
filmmakers
cast
black
actors
as
angels,
they
are
free
to
displace
the
realities
of

African
American
history
into
more
viewer-‐friendly
narratives.
They
can
also
create
scenes

of
easy
unproblematic
black/white
reconciliation,
often
providing
the
audience
with
an

108

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

Rutgers
University
Press,
2004),
6.

448

emotional,
even
cathartic
moment.
For
most
audiences,
these
reconciliation
scenes
are
most

effective
when
racial,
social,
and
cultural
formations
remain
unmentioned
and

unquestioned.
Thus,
the
white
protagonist
inevitably
remains
the
central
figure,
and
the

black
angel
unselfishly
moves
heaven
and
earth
to
keep
it
that
way.
The
African
American

characters
in
these
films
are
not
necessarily
placed
below
the
central
white
people;
they
are

simply
placed
outside
the
hierarchies
dominated
by
whites.
The
result,
intentionally
or
not,

is
that
audiences
are
less
likely
to
notice
the
old
structures
of
power
still
standing
just

outside
their
field
of
vision.
On
one
level,
this
basic
narrative
appeals
to
legitimate
feelings

among
whites
and
blacks
alike
that
the
races
can
and
should
live
together
productively.
On

another
level,
it
reflects
a
serious
racial
crisis
in
American
life
so
unpleasant
that
it
must
be

replaced
by
fantasy.
Worse,
the
black
angel
films
reinforce
the
same
racist
ideologies
that

continue
to
keep
most
white
people
in
places
where
blacks
are
absent
and
unwelcome.
109

This
concept
of
“unproblematic
black/white
reconciliation”
is
present
in
every
Formula
Dance
Film,

whether
embodied
in
the
literal
figures
of
African
American
and
Caucasian
characters,
or
mapped

onto
the
universalizing

proxy
of
dance.
In
its
function
and
placement,
hip-‐hop
becomes
in
effect,
the

magical
black
in
the
Formula
Dance
cycle.
Even
when
the
physical
black
bodies
are
removed
as
seen

in
the
Step
Up
Franchise,
hip-‐hop
serves
as
a
symbolic
entity
that
still
inspires,
invigorates,
and

enables
the
white
characters
to
access
latent
passion
and
succeed
in
their
endeavors.
Whether
as
an

actual
character
in
the
narrative
or
as
narrative
analogue,
the
myth
of
“black
magic”
remains
central

to
the
genre.

The
Musical
Revisited

As
mentioned
earlier,
Step
Up
3
introduces
a
new
back-‐lot
stylization
in
its
aesthetics
by

presenting
full-‐fledged
musical
numbers
with
postclassical
technical
inlay.
The
first
two
Step
Up
films

adhere
to
typical
Formula
Dance
integration,
whereby
dance
scenes
arise
naturally
and
logically
as

rehearsals,
competitions,
performances,
and
“improvised”
moments
of
public
display.
In
all
of
these

instances,
the
audience
understands
that
narrative
realism
is
in
tact,
and
that
these
films
are

emphatically
not
traditional
musicals.

However,
Step
Up
3
is
the
turning
point:
the
dancers
are
now

performing
routines
that
are
clearly
and
obtrusively
staged
musical
numbers,
which
is
an
approach

that
will
take
over
the
franchise
from
this
film
onward.

The
first
example
of
this
new
method
of
musical
integration
is
the
Broken
Tango
sequence

that
occurs
when
Luke
sneaks
into
a
fancy
Upper
West
Side
party
in
disguise
to
meet
Natalie
after
her

defection.
As
a
story
point,
Julien
has
falsely
lured
Luke
there
so
that
he
can
expose
Natalie,
with
the

intent
of
shaking
Luke
so
badly
that
the
Pirate
leader
will
be
thrown
off
his
game.
As
an
“unmasking”

109

Ibid.,
144.

449

scene,
the
dancers
are
appropriately
wearing
black
masks,
reminiscent
of
the
Capulet
ball
in
Romeo

and
Juliet.
The
host
announces,
“And
now,
the
Broken
Tango,”
and
as
the
sensual
violins
begin,
Luke

grabs
Natalie
and
they
somehow
manage
to
execute
a
flawless
duet,
perfectly
in
tandem
with
the

other
tango
couples.
Theoretically,
a
skilled
dancer
like
Luke
could
step
in
and
perform
a
decently

accurate
tango
because
the
steps
are
part
of
an
established
lexicon,
but
this
particular
tango
is
so

complex
and
filigreed
that
it
can
only
exist
for
on-‐screen
impact;
every
minute
undulation,
flick
of
the

finger,
and
toss
of
the
head
is
choreographed.
While
the
cotillion-‐like
dancers
have
rehearsed,
Luke

and
Natalie
have
never
danced
this
particular
number
together,
and
yet
they
are
perfectly
in
synch,

turning
the
piece
into
a
musical
number
in
the
studio
era
sense
of
the
term.

The
number
is
conceived

in
a
purely
cinematic
mode
without
being
beholden
to
narrative
logic
or
the
realism
that
had

previously
defined
other
non-‐musical
dance
movies.

The
scene
derives
its
impact
from
the
visual

metaphor
of
a
masked
tango
presaging
Natalie’s
figurative
unmasking,
and
the
imagery
and
spectacle

are
valued
over
realistic
integration.

While
the
tango
may
be
a
more
subtle
breach
of
filmic
reality,
at
the
half-‐way
mark,
there
is

musical
number
that
simply
defies
any
claim
to
realism
as
an
unapologetic
musical
number
with

intentional
references
to
the
classical
musicals
of
the
1940s
and
1950s.
The
“I
Won’t
Dance"

sequence
is
essentially
a
Fred
and
Ginger
postmodern
remix
performed
by
Moose
and
his
friend

Camille,
and
everything
about
it,
from
the
staging
to
the
choreography
to
the
technical
inlay,
is
a

direct
referential
homage.

In
the
studio
era
musical,
technical
inlay
refers
to
the
transitional
moment

where
characters
move
from
talking
to
singing,
walking
to
dancing.
In
the
most
masterful
musical

sequences,
this
is
accomplished
by
having
clear
dramatic
and
thematic
motivation
and
a
strong

narrative
connection.
Successful
integration
is
virtually
seamless
and
the

film
should
never
screech

to
a
halt;
rather,
the
number
should
be
an
amplification
of
the
“straight”
storyline
and
an
expansive

space
for
characters
to
project
their
subjectivity
through
song
and
dance.

In
Step
Up
3’s
version
of
the
integrated
musical
number,
Moose
is
trying
to
make
amends

with
Camille
for
being
absent
and
ignoring
their
friendship.
She
is
initially
angry
and
hurt,
but
her

resentment
eases
with
his
goofy
antics.
He
overhears
a
strain
of
music
emanating
from
an
ice
cream

truck
speaker.
The
song
happens
to
be
“I
Won’t
Dance,”
made
famous
in
the
1935
Astaire
and
Rogers

film
Roberta.
Moose
asks
her,
“Remember
this?
We
met
to
this
song.
You
remember
the

choreography,
right?”
This
dialogue
establishes
a
logical
connection
between
the
characters
and
the

song,
indicating
an
emotional
resonance
for
them
that
is
meant
to
explain
why
and
how
they
would

be
able
to
perform
an
impromptu
dance.
From
a
technical
standpoint,
the
next
hurdle
is
to
provide

450

and
explain
the
source
of
music,
since
they
are
outside
on
a
lower
east
side
New
York
City
street.

Accordingly,
Moose
asks
the
surly
ice
cream
truck
operator
to
turn
up
their
music
so
they
can
dance.

In
a
classical
musical,
a
jovial
ice
cream
man
would
likely
beam
at
the
request
and
turn
up
the
music,

but
in
this
slightly
ironic
postmodern
re-‐imagining,
he
is
the
typical
angry
New
Yorker
who
wants

nothing
to
do
with
these
upbeat
dancing
kids
unless
they
pay
for
the
pleasure.
Moose
pays
the
man

five
dollars,
which
provides
tenuous
logic
for
the
sudden
increase
in
volume,
as
the
film's
soundtrack

audibly
shifts
from
a
truck's
speaker
to
a
surround-‐sound
playback
that
fills
the
entire
city
street.

Once
the
ice
cream
man
turns
up
the
volume,
the
music
moves
from
diegetic
to
non-‐diegetic
scoring,

which
is
totally
acceptable
in
the
conventional
musical,
but
is
totally
new
and
somewhat
jarring
for

the
contemporary
Formula
Dance
Film.

The
number
itself
is
likewise
a
classical
throwback
with
revisionist
twists
like
winking
visual

and
choreographic
references,
including
Gene
Kelly
jumping
on
the
streetlamp
in
Singing
in
the
Rain

(1953),
the
trashcan
lid
tap
dance
from
It’s
Always
Fair
Weather
(1955),
and
the
creative

incorporation
of
New
York
City
street
stoops
from
Cover
Girl
(1944).
And
in
perhaps
the
most

formalist
gesture
of
all,
the
entire
number
is
achieved
in
one
mobile
tracking
shot.
In
a
film
(and

genre)
so
thoroughly
committed
to
the
rapidity
and
montage
edits
of
the
music
video
aesthetic,
this

very
restraint
and
lyrical
elegance
are
completely
distinctive.
Captured
with
all
the
visual
dexterity
of

a
studio
era
musical,
this
sequence
demonstrates
the
filmmakers’
awareness
of
and
deference
to

their
cinematic
past,
and
it
positions
the
Formula
Dance
film
as
a
contemporary
extension
and

augmentation
of
the
genre.
Like
a
postclassical
musical
number,
this
version
of
“I
Won’t
Dance”
is

smoothly
integrated
into
the
narrative,
but
it
would
not
be
feasible
in
a
truly
real-‐world
context,

which
elevates
Step
Up
3
from
the
strict
realism
of
its
predecessors.
This
fantasy
element
will

continue
and
become
the
franchise
signature,
as
the
series
moves
further
away
from
the
roots
of
the

Formula
Dance
cycle
and
its
original
emphasis
on
gritty
urban
realism.

Step
Up:
Revolution

In
a
major
departure
from
the
decidedly
inner-‐city
settings
of
the
previous
three
films,
Step

Up:
Revolution
(2012)
takes
place
in
Miami,
resulting
in
an
entirely
new
set
of
attendant
aesthetic
and

ideological
implications.
The
racial
erasure
instigated
by
earlier
Step
Up
films
continues
with
yet

another
pair
of
white
protagonists
as
the
romantic
leads:
Sean
and
Emily
played
by
newcomers
and

professional
dancers
Ryan
Guzman
and
Kathryn
McCormick.
Additionally,
under
the
eye
of
first-‐time

director
Scott
Speer,
Step
Up:
Revolution
marks
not
only
a
break
from
the
expected
setting,
but
an

almost
complete
breach
of
filmic
reality
and
verisimilitude
in
the
dance
numbers,
positioning
this

451

film
far
closer
to
the
studio
era
musical
than
any
of
its
predecessors.
From
its
subject
matter
and

tone,
to
the
set-‐pieces
and
integration
of
dance
numbers,
Revolution
is
essentially
a
musical.
It
is

totally
and
gleefully
unburdened
by
the
restraints
of
realism
or
any
aspiration
to
the
gritty
cinema

verité
style
attempted
in
earlier
films.
While
Revolution’s
story
is
standard
issue,
the
visuals
are

exceedingly
formalist:
the
camera
work,
digital
film
stock,
and
color
plot
all
have
a
surrealist
quality,

and
the
logic
(or
rather
illogic)
of
the
dance
numbers
themselves
have
no
sense
of
relatable
spatial

orientation.
With
a
penchant
for
the
fish-‐eye
lens,
low
angles,
and
composition
that
heavily
favors
the

foreground,
Revolution
comes
across
like
a
comic
book
strip
sprung
to
life.
Additionally,
the
numbers

are
pure
fantasy,
and
totally
impossible
in
the
real
world.

This
fantastical
mode
is
not
new—decades
earlier,
Busby
Berkeley
trademarked
his
own

hallucinatory
breaches
of
spatial
and
temporal
confines,
but
his
dancers
were
still
recognizably

human,
and
while
his
soundstages
were
too
grandiose
to
conceivably
fit
on
the
diegetic
stage
of
the

narrative
proper,
his
ornate
sets
still
had
a
connection
to
the
material
world.
Revolution
however,

looks
more
like
a
hyper-‐kinetic
video
game:
from
the
luminescent
gleam
on
the
characters’
skin,
to

the
psychedelic
color
palette,
to
the
post-‐production
manipulation
of
film
stock
and
film
speed,
all
the

dance
scenes
and
dancers
themselves
are
reflexive
and
stylized.
Step
Up:
Revolution
is

quintessentially
postmodern
in
that
it
favors
and
privileges
style
over
substance.
It
is
all
about
affect

and
visceral
experience,
but
that
does
not
mean
cultural
issues
are
absent—if
anything,
the
amplified

setting
makes
it
all
the
more
conspicuous
that
real
issues
are
being
ignored
and
subsumed,
and
the

demoted
importance
of
race
becomes
the
unacknowledged
shadow.

By
the
Book:
The
Formula
in
Action

By
2012,
even
the
most
casual
viewer
would
have
recognized
Revolution
as
the
latest

submission
in
the
popular
onslaught
of
teen
dance
films.
This
type
of
audience
familiarity
and
public

receptivity
(with
its
concurrent
promise
of
box
office
returns)
afforded
the
film’s
production
a

certain
laxity.
Now
that
this
new
genre
is
so
well-‐established
and
has
a
pre-‐sold
aura,
it
lessens
the

demands
on
narrative
logic,
screenwriting,
and
even
acting
performances,
allowing
the
filmmakers
to

dedicate
focus
and
resources
on
the
dance
numbers.
The
average
Formula
Dance
Film
ticketholder
is

going
primarily
to
enjoy
the
dancing
and
to
see
how
this
film
can
top
the
last
in
terms
of
stylistic

escalation.
As
such,
the
choreography
will
always
be
more
important
than
the
acting,
and
these
films

have
famously
showcased
new
talent
from
the
dance
world
by
continually
casting
professional

dancers
with
little
feature
film
experience.
The
Step
Up
Franchise
has
benefited
from
media
cross-‐
promotion
and
diversification
by
taking
advantage
of
this
dance-‐crazed
moment
in
popular
culture,

452

witnessed
by
the
longevity
and
massive
viewership
of
reality
TV
shows
like
Dancing
with
the
Stars

(ABC),
America’s
Best
Dance
Crew
(NBC),
and
So
You
Think
You
Can
Dance?
(Fox).
The
latter
show
in

particular
has
proven
especially
fruitful
for
the
Step
Up
franchise,
and
from
the
second
film
onward,

the
series
has
regularly
cast
former
contestants
in
lead
roles,
rather
than
professional
actors.
This

practice
inevitably
results
in
the
generally
weak
acting
performances
throughout
the
genre,
but
as

the
films
get
continually
more
stylized
and
expressionistic,
and
as
the
dance
numbers
continue
to

dominate
the
screen
time,
believable
acting
is
simply
not
a
concern
anymore.
The
performances
are

generally
stiff,
uninspired,
or
unbelievable,
but
these
dialogue
scenes
are
now
little
more
than

transitional
moments
between
the
dance
numbers
that
dutifully
present
the
narrative
stakes
but

largely
delay
or
impede
the
film’s
main
attraction.

Revolution
can
therefore
be
read
as
the
zenith
of
Formula
Dance
production
practices:
the

story
is
a
basic
romance
melodrama
combined
with
a
heavy-‐handed
social
problem
theme
meant
to

capitalize
on
the
topical
relevance
of
Flash
mobs
and
protest/performance
art.
The
plot
is
so

predictable
that
any
Formula
Dance
fan
can
reasonably
call
out
lines
of
dialogue
well
before
they

occur.
The
genre
rules
are
completely
crystallized
at
this
point
and
we
anticipate
every
story
element

and
plot
turn
in
advance,
so
the
emphasis
is
now
placed
on
reveling
in
pure
spectacle.
Critics
of
the

cycle
can
and
do
deride
the
repetitive
nature
of
these
films,
and
the
genre
can
easily
be
dismissed
as

just
more
postmodern
detritus,
intent
on
producing
affect
but
lacking
artistry;
condemned
as
just

another
example
of
a
philistine
entertainment
industry
taking
advantage
of
today’s
MTV-‐weaned

youth
and
their
terminally
short-‐attention
spans,
a
stance
that
Lara
Thompson
reassesses
in
her

essay
“In
Praise
of
Speed”:

According
to
this
perspective,
slow,
contemplative
cinematic
speed
has
been
critically

elevated
over
pure
sensation.
Rushing
excitement
and
adrenaline
is
seen
as
a
negative

experience
which
lacks
meaning
and
artistic
merit.
This
criticism
of
fast
cinema
is

compounded
by
the
mainstream
dominance
of
youth-‐oriented
films
containing
high-‐speed

dance
music
and
action
sequences
that
are
cut
in
time
to
an
incessant
beat.
This
apparent

over-‐use
of
the
“MTV
aesthetic”
has
been
attributed
to
the
ever-‐decreasing
attention-‐spans

of
a
youth
audience,
immersed
in
the
ever-‐increasing
speed
of
contemporary
society…I

would
like
to
suggest
that
cinematic
speed
should
not
be
automatically
aligned
with

youthful
vacuity…It
is
not
speed
that
is
at
fault
here.
Fast
motion
is
not
in
and
of
itself
the

perpetrator
of
mindlessness.
Rather,
like
any
stylistic
film
trope,
it
is
the
way
that
the
fast

453

edit
and
the
quick
cut
have
been
used
as
empty
shortcuts
to
excitement
in
modern
cinema

that
must
be
critiqued.
110

Such
debates
illuminate
the
generational
rift
of
tastemakers
and
the
postmodern
MTV
aesthetic
in

general,
as
Marco
Calavita
argues
in
his
revisionist
article
that
explores
what
he
deems
a
historically

inaccurate,
medium
specific
fallacy:

These
reviews
are
also
examples
of
the
last
of
the
untenable
positions
embedded
in
the

MTV
aesthetics
trope,
namely
the
one
between
adult
culture,
which
the
critic
inevitably

associates
him-‐
or
herself
with,
and
youth
culture,
which
fares
quite
poorly
in
comparison.

As
part
of
this
trope,
the
symbolism
of
the
“MTV”
itself
is
enough
to
trivialize
the
films
in

question—simply
by
associating
them
with
contemporary
youth
and
their
values,
interests,

and
concerns,
all
of
which
are
insignificant,
unhealthy,
or
both.
111

As
postmodern
proponents
and
MTV
apologists
will
attest,
this
style
is
not
really
a
new
phenomenon,

despite
laments,
elegies,
and
faux
nostalgia.
While
the
music
and
dance
moves
have
changed
and
the

content
has
evolved
to
reflect
twenty-‐first
century
social
concerns,
the
Formula
Dance
Film
will

always
maintain
a
fundamental
hereditary
connection
to
its
musical
ancestors,
many
of
which
were

equally
formulaic
and
iterative.

Like
the
Busby
Berkeley
backstagers
at
Warner
Brothers,
the
Mickey

and
Judy
moppet
musicals,
and
the
Freed
Unit’s
lavish
productions
at
MGM,
Formula
Dance
Films
are

also
built
on
a
foundation
of
repetition
with
variation;
on
using
established
and
successful
formulae

and
augmenting
them
for
each
new
outing.
As
such,
Step
Up:
Revolution
can
be
interpreted
as
a

postmodern
version
of
the
classical
musical,
with
a
similar
adherence
to
a
standardized
narrative
and

an
emphasis
on
spectacular
set-‐pieces
and
production
values.

The
plot
is
one
of
the
leanest
to
date,
with
most
of
the
run-‐time
devoted
to
dance
numbers

that
also
happen
to
be
the
longest
in
the
entire
cycle
thus
far.
In
short,
Sean
is
a
member
of
The
Mob,

a
manifold
group
of
bohemian
youth
(dancers,
musicians,
graffiti
artists,
and
even
a
conceptual

welder).
Their
mission
is
to
shake
up
the
status
quo
through
guerilla
performance
art,
and
as
their

name
suggests,
they
operate
in
secret
while
exerting
their
powerful
influence
on
the
city
of
Miami,

hiding
their
identities
while
upending
normalcy
in
the
beachside
community.
There
seems
to
be
no

immediate
purpose
to
their
impromptu
performances
beyond
shock
value
and
entertainment.
While

110

Lara
Thompson,
“In
Praise
of
Speed:
The
Value
of
Velocity
in
Contemporary

Cinema,”Dandelion
2
(Spring
2011):
1-‐15,
http://dandelionjournal.org
(accessed
February

14
2012).

111

Marco
Calavita,
“MTV
at
the
Movies:
Interrogating
a
Film
Criticism
Fallacy”
Journal
of

Film
and
Video
59
(2007):
15-‐31.

454

these
performances
are
well-‐received
by
a
segment
of
the
community,
they
are
also
disruptive
and

technically
illegal,
so
The
Mob
must
skirt
the
edges
of
legality
and
keep
their
identities
and
plans
a

guarded
secret.
They
are
amateurs
in
the
truest
sense
of
the
word—they
dance
for
the
love
of
their

art.

Though
there
is
a
cursory
and
rather
inchoate
speech
about
how
dance
can
change
the
world,
it

is
a
vague
mission
statement
at
best
and
only
a
tenuous
pretext
for
more
dancing.
Sean
is

preoccupied
with
orchestrating
new
and
more
grandiose
performances
for
his
crew
and
he

constantly
expounds
on
the
importance
of
following
your
dreams.
Meanwhile
his
sister—a

beleaguered
single
mother—implores
him
to
give
up
his
frivolous
lifestyle
and
secure
a
real
job
and

stable
future,
thus
pitting
passion
against
pragmatism.

The
stakes
and
dramatic
conflicts
are
introduced
in
quick
succession.
Firstly,
The
Mob
is

intent
on
getting
a
million
YouTube
hits
as
part
of
an
on-‐line
contest
that
would
generate
exposure

and
lead
to
financial
returns,
allowing
them
to
finally
make
a
profit
from
their
as-‐yet
uncompensated

passion
project.
In
2012,
The
Youtube
element
was
highly
relevant
and
Revolution
proved
on-‐trend

by
incorporating
the
real
presence
and
popularity
of
flash
mobs,
on-‐line
videos,
the
increasing
role
of

interactivity
in
the
dance
world.
However,
this
plot
point
is
so
specific
and
inextricably
tied
to
the

year
of
production
that
it
probably
limits
the
future
relevance
and
appeal
of
a
film
that
has
essentially

built
in
its
own
eventual
obsolescence.
Secondary
to
the
competitive
stakes,
the
romance
plotline

takes
shape
when
Sean
meets
Emily
Anderson
at
an
exclusive
beach
club
where
he
works
as
a
waiter.

By
profession
(and
notably
by
choice)
he
is
a
member
of
the
social
underclass,
whereas
Emily
is

actually
a
member
of
the
club
and
part
of
Miami’s
elite.
Acting
on
his
instant
attraction,
Sean

challenges
her
to
an
impromptu
dance
battle
on
the
sand,
and
a
sexual
courtship
arises
out
of
this

playful
conflict.
They
mock,
tease,
and
spar
while
launching
into
a
dance-‐off
and
trying
to
top
each

other’s
moves.
The
scene
is
clearly
coded
as
a
mating
dance
that
substitutes
for
dialogue
as
they

writhe
on
the
sand,
enacting
a
clothed,
choreographed
version
of
foreplay.

After
the
romance
plotline
is
underway,
the
final
dramatic
conflict
comes
from
the
revelation

that
a
heartless
real
estate
magnate
plans
to
buy
up
and
demolish
The
Mob’s
neighborhood
to
make

way
for
soulless
gentrification
and
displacement.
Now
in
addition
to
the
quest
for
Youtube
hits,
the

narrative
stakes
include
saving
the
neighborhood
from
the
rich
and
ruthless
developer.
This
strained

social
problem
element
merges
with
the
romantic
storyline
when
in
a
dramatic
reveal,
we
learn
that

Emily’s
father
is
the
very
magnate
who
threatens
to
destroy
The
Mob’s
neighborhood.
While
Sean

wants
to
secure
The
Mob’s
posterity
and
follow
his
dreams,
Emily
simultaneously
want
to
forge
a

path
independent
from
the
nepotism
of
her
powerful
father.
Her
lifelong
dream
is
winning

455

admittance
to
the
prestigious
Winwood
Contemporary
Dance
Academy,
and
just
as
Sean
foregoes

financial
stability
for
his
dancing
passion,
Emily
eschewgs
a
“proper”
education
in
pursuit
of
her

dance
career.
Their
parallel
desires,
obstacles,
and
goals
create
a
requisite
space
for
the
genre-‐
defining
cultural
fusion
and
melding
of
dance
styles
that
ensure
mutual
self-‐discovery
and
happiness

in
every
Formula
Dance
Film.

As
Emily
prepares
for
the
All-‐Important
Audition
(another
genre
staple),
Sean
suggests
that

she
incorporate
some
of
the
moves
she
did
on
the
beach.
In
reality,
Emily’s
moves
on
the
beach
were

as
equally
choreographed
as
any
other
number
in
the
film,
but
we
are
to
understand
that
her
sexy

free-‐styling
was
liberated,
spontaneous,
and
fresh.
According
to
the
Formula
Dance
premise,
Emily
is

capable
of
cutting
loose
only
when
she
accesses
her
real
emotions
and
breaks
free
from
the
confines

of
classical
training.
She
icily
reminds
Sean
that,
“There
are
rules,”
which
is
the
common
mantra
of
all

the
uptight
Formula
Dance
characters
who
make
up
one
half
of
the
street
dance/classical
dance

binary.
Their
hauteur
and
hesitance
to
shake
up
tradition
is
always
counterbalanced
by
the

streetwise
dancer’s
insistence
on
dancing
what
you
feel.
True
to
form,
the
marriage
of
technique
and

emotion
prevails
concurrently
with
their
blossoming
love.
After
earning
provisional
admission
to

Winwood,
Emily
must
secure
a
permanent
place
in
the
company
by
choreographing
an
original
piece,

but
she
struggles
to
shed
the
constraints
of
her
disciplined
background.
Her
uncompromising

company
director
summarizes
the
Formula
Dance
thesis:
“Your
technique
is
quite
good,
excellent

even,
but
baby
girl,
you
lack
originality
and
I
suggest
you
find
some,”
thereby
issuing
an
open

invitation
to
seek
authenticity
through
street
dance.
Sean
encourages
her
to
“break
the
rules,”
which

is
the
animating
force
of
the
genre:
Emily
needs
to
relax,
release,
and
become
more
instinctual;
Sean

in
turn
should
theoretically
gain
wisdom
and
improve
as
a
dancer
by
learning
respect
for
technique

and
training.
This
would
be
in
accordance
with
Formula
Dance
rules,
and
we
see
this
mechanism
in

the
first
three
films
of
the
Step
Up
franchise.
However,
in
this
somewhat
hastily
crafted,
hazily

sketched
sequel,
the
give-‐and-‐take
symbiosis
is
not
quite
symmetric,
owing
mostly
to
the
uneven

script
with
its
heavy
focus
on
increasingly
lavish
production
numbers.
Consequently,
our
familiarity

with
genre
protocol
allows
us
to
fill
in
the
missing
narrative
gaps
without
it
detracting
from
the

dancing.

At
Sean’s
insistence,
Emily
conceals
her
identity
as
the
villain’s
daughter
and
joins
The
Mob,

where
her
technique
impresses
the
crew
and
they
cast
her
as
a
lead
dancer.
In
their
downtime,
Sean

and
Emily
also
choreograph
and
rehearse
her
piece
for
Winwood,
a
sensual
pas
de
deux
that
accesses

the
same
passion
she
displayed
on
the
sand.
These
rehearsals
take
place
in
the
lapping
waves
of
an

456

idyllic
Miami
beach,
and
the
montage
serves
a
dual
purpose
of
chronicling
their
growing
love
and

previewing
the
type
of
dance
that
cultural
fusion
can
engender.
However,
their
halcyon
romance
is

short-‐lived
as
crisis
and
reversal
occur
when
Emily
gets
discovered
as
a
perceived
traitor
in
their

midst.
This
supposed
betrayal
forces
Sean
to
abdicate,
leaving
The
Mob
fractured
and
uncertain.

Without
Sean’s
egalitarian
rule,
his
combative
second-‐in-‐command
takes
over
and
stages
a
more

violent
coup
at
the
magnate’s
fundraising
charity.
In
this
terrorist-‐like
number,
the
dancing
becomes

assaultive
and
aggressive—The
Mob
has
officially
moved
from
playfully
disruptive
to
anarchic
and

dangerous,
releasing
tear
gas,
damaging
property,
and
terrifying
party
guests.

Now
torn
between
allegiance
to
her
father
and
her
new
friends,
Emily
separates
herself
from

Sean
and
subsequently
fails
her
audition
when
she
tries
to
perform
her
duet
as
a
solo.

At
the
lowest

point
of
her
character
arc,
Emily
appears
to
undergo
a
moral
awakening,
and
she
begins
to
see
past

her
own
desires
for
the
greater
good,
claiming,
“Enough
with
performance
art.
It’s
time
for
protest

art!”
With
a
newfound
humility
and
humanitarian
ethic,
she
becomes
an
impassioned
advocate,
and

Revolution
valiantly
attempts
to
introduce
its
own
spin
on
the
social
problem
thematic
so
dear
to
the

Formula
Dance
Film.
However,
this
clarion
call
is
somewhat
ambiguously
defined
and
the
stakes
just

do
not
seem
all
that
important
in
comparison
to
other
films
in
the
cycle.
The
Mob
dancers
suddenly

transform
into
art
vigilantes
and
the
film
appears
to
encourage
political
activism
and
grassroots

campaigning,
but
it
never
presses
the
agenda
with
any
real
conviction
and
the
visual
spectacle
always

wins
out
over
the
message.
However,
these
fairly
ingenuous
stakes
(wholesome
dancing
teens
losing

their
neighborhood)
also
imbue
the
film
with
a
sort
of
throw-‐back
retro
charm:
the
narrative
goal
has

the
naïve
persistence
and
innocent
appeal
of
a
Mickey
and
Judy
film,
only
here
the
precocious

moppets
and
singing
juveniles
are
replaced
by
hard
bodied
b-‐boys
and
curvaceous
video
vixens.

As
Anderson
plans
an
opulent
ground-‐breaking
ceremony
at
the
waterfront,
the
reunited

Mob
appears
out
of
nowhere
with
some
newly
recruited
dancers,
and
they
stage
an
elaborate
final

set-‐piece.
The
number
is
so
extraordinary
that
it
convinces
Miami’s
mayor
that
this
vibrant
and

versatile
community
needs
to
be
preserved;
Anderson
agrees
and
also
gives
Emily
his
blessing
to

follow
her
dancing
dreams.
Strangely,
there
is
no
resolution
for
the
Winwood
audition—formula

dictates
that
the
company
director
would
have
been
secretly
attending
The
Mob’s
performance
to

witness
Emily’s
unfettered
talent
and
offer
her
admission.
This
does
not
happen,
but
the
fact
that

such
a
storyline
seems
inevitable
speaks
to
the
established
consistency
of
narrative
strategies
that

has
solidified
the
genre
over
the
last
decade.
However,
in
this
instance,
Step
Up:
Revolution
is
simply

underwritten,
and
the
script
is
an
afterthought
for
the
dance.
Once
the
romance
plotline
is

457

sufficiently
tied
up
with
a
kiss,
the
remaining
troubles
are
resolved
with
a
hasty
deus
ex
machina
in

which
a
rep
from
Nike
offers
Sean
a
contract
to
choreograph
their
commercials.
The
hypocrisy
seems

inescapable:
The
Mob’s
entire
existence
had
been
reliant
on
skirting
the
borders
of
the
mainstream,

and
now
corporate
sponsorship
is
suddenly
and
jarringly
proposed
as
a
solution.
Again,
in
a
film
that

tries
to
position
itself
as
a
grassroots
celebration
of
independent
artistry,
this
seems
like
a
sell-‐out

move
that
would
invalidate
The
Mob’s
claim
to
authenticity
as
well
as
the
film’s
intention
as
a
whole,

an
irony
not
lost
on
critics,
“The
film
ends
on
a
predictably
triumphant
note
with
vague
platitudes
of

reconciliation
and
an
offer
to
participate
in
a
marketing
campaign
for
a
multinational
campaign
with

a
shaky
labor-‐practice
record.
One
perhaps
does
not
expect
a
fully
formed
and
cogent
political

platform
from
a
"Step
Up"
film,
but
when
a
movie
puts
"Revolution"
in
the
title
and
engages

community
action
and
social
justice
directly
there
should
be
more
at
the
end
than
simply
selling
out

to
the
first
bidder.”
112

Perplexingly,
Revolution
is
probably
the
weakest
film
in
the
cycle
in
terms
of
narrative,

faltering
along
with
inconsistent
themes,
plot
holes,
and
paltry
characterization,
and
yet
it
boasts

some
of
the
most
truly
amazing
dance
numbers
to
date.

That
such
polarities
can
exist
in
one
film
is

symptomatic
of
the
genre
itself
and
its
vacillations
and
equivocations.
Initially
about
the
very
real

and
complex
realities
of
race
relations,
the
recent
Formula
Dance
Films
have
become
diluted
feel-‐
good
stories
about
relatively
tame
culture
clashes;
and
no
matter
how
earnestly
the
film
pushes
a

social
problem
agenda,
the
primacy
of
dance
will
always
win
out.
This
neutralizing
tendency
also

complicates
our
reception:
if
we
immerse
ourselves
in
the
kinetic
spectacle,
these
films
are
highly

enjoyable.
However,
if
we
look
deeper,
the
ideology
does
not
stand
up
to
scrutiny
and
at
worst,
these

films
expose
disturbing
and
disheartening
assumptions
about
race
by
their
very
dismissal
of
the

subject.

The
Rejection
of
Realism:
Neo-classical
Musical
Numbers

The
ability
of
cine-‐dance
to
transcend
narrative
flaws
is
the
unique
province
of
the
Formula

Dance
Film,
and
like
the
classical
musical
before
it,
this
cycle
must
be
assessed
and
analyzed
on
its

own
terms,
since
current
genre
categorization
and
critical
rubrics
do
not
adequately
capture
the

spirit
and
intention
of
these
films.
The
set-‐pieces
discussed
below
are
so
original
and
expressively

rendered
that
they
actually
counteract
the
film’s
failure
of
logic
and
literary
design.

112

Mark
Olsen,
“In
‘Step
Up
Revolution,’
Dancing
as
a
Cure-‐all,”
Los
Angeles
Times,
July
26,

2012.

458

In
the
genre-‐standard
opening
five
minutes,
Revolution
builds
upon
and
then
totally

surpasses
the
formalism
established
by
previous
Formula
Dance
Films,
committing
to
an
escalation

syndrome
that
has
intensified
the
cycle
with
each
passing
year.
The
premise
is
that
The
Mob
has

covertly
planted
its
performers
along
Ocean
Drive,
and
when
their
DJ
starts
the
jam,
two
customized

low-‐rider
cars
stop
traffic
on
either
end,
immobilizing
an
entire
city
street
of
drivers
and
pedestrians

who
become
a
literally
captive
audience.
The
number
showcases
every
form
of
street
dance,
as
the

city
block
becomes
a
massive
stage
for
the
dancers,
who
perform
on
the
pavement,
on
the
hoods
of

automobiles,
and
on
the
rooftops
of
businesses,
complete
with
choreographed
cars
that
bounce
on

hydraulics
to
the
pumping
rhythm.
The
total
effect
is
visceral
and
overwhelming,
and
wholly
devoid

of
any
resemblance
to
reality.
This
piece
would
be
impossible
to
stage
in
any
context.

Not
even
a

professional
and
well-‐funded
dance
troupe
could
pull
off
such
a
complex
and
flawlessly
executed

guerilla
performance.
The
dance
moves
alone
are
preternaturally
polished,
not
to
mention
that
The

Mob
has
stopped
traffic
on
South
Beach
and
have
magically
commandeered
a
sound
system
powerful

enough
to
boom
over
several
city
blocks.
As
the
film
and
its
genre
try
to
persuade
us,
none
of
this

matters,
and
such
minor
concerns
of
plausibility
have
become
irrelevant.
The
Formula
Dance
Film
is

about
pleasure
and
entertainment
and
this
film
boldly
presents
itself
as
unadulterated
spectacle,
a

visual
circus
that
demands
suspension
of
disbelief.
While
the
current
cycle
may
have
added
new

facets
of
content
and
style,
moviegoers
have
historically
brought
that
same
level
of
willing
immersion

to
the
traditional
musical,
where
the
audience
has
an
a
priori
acceptance
that
people
will
suddenly

break
into
song
and
dance.
Revolution
can
therefore
be
viewed
as
the
next
evolutionary
step
in
a

cinematic
musical
tradition,
but
such
a
breach
is
initially
off-‐putting
given
that
the
earlier
Step
Up

films
had
a
lingering
attachment
to
reality,
while
this
latter
entry
is
essentially
one
long
music
video

or
postmodern
pop
musical.

The
formal
properties
of
each
danced
set-‐piece
are
clearly
designed
for
the
cinema,
and
the

choreography
is
specifically
intended
for
rapid
montage
editing.
Not
only
is
Revolution
cut
to
the

music,
but
the
dance
moves
and
formations
have
been
tailored
for
cinematic
impact
and
fast
edits.

There
is
no
sense
that
these
numbers
could
or
should
ever
be
captured
in
their
totality—proscenium

framing,
a
wide
shot,
or
a
mobile
long
take
would
likely
reveal
a
discordant
mess.
There
is
no

choreographic
coherence,
and
the
dancing
is
meant
solely
for
the
camera.
Despite
the
contemporary

updates
and
blaring
hip-‐hop
soundtrack,
these
numbers
share
a
surprising
continuity
with
studio
era

productions.
They
are
basically
full-‐fledged
movie
musical
numbers
in
the
style
of
Arthur
Freed
or

Busby
Berkeley,
defying
the
logic
of
time
and
space
and
straining
credulity
in
favor
of
visual
effect.
At

its
best,
Revolution
plays
like
a
neo-‐classical
musical,
complete
with
fanciful
and
expansive
sets,

459

extravagant
costumes,
and
diegetic
audiences
who
perfectly
assemble
at
“random"
and
yet
never

impede
the
dancers
or
their
dancing
space.

A
hold-‐over
from
the
classical
era,
these
on-‐screen

audiences
exist
to
bear
witness,
admire,
and
applaud
the
dancers;
they
also
serve
a
participatory

function
to
mirror,
mimic,
or
instantiate
the
theater
audience’s
equally
impressed
reactions:

Despite
the
most
valiant
attempts
to
bring
us
closer
to
the
stage,
the
proscenium
limits
our

sense
of
participation
in
the
performance
itself.
A
skillful
director
may
use
the
camera
to

animate
such
performances,
but
(with
the
exception
of
Busby
Berkeley
for
whom
the

proscenium
was
a
joke)
we
remain
aware
that
the
performers
are
up
there
on
the
stage
and

we
are
down
here
in
the
audience…But
when
the
performance
is
a
spontaneous
one
taking

place
in
the
realm
of
the
narrative,
we
may
experience
a
strong
desire
to
sing
and
dance
in

the
rain
ourselves.
Spurred
by
the
directorial
brilliance
of
Vincente
Minnelli
and
the
persona

of
Gene
Kelly,
MGM
musicals
of
the
1940s
began
to
create
natural
audiences
that
would

spontaneously
gather
around
the
impromptu
numbers
of
an
Astaire
or
a
Kelly…not
only

does
the
audience
appear
to
form
spontaneously
but
also
we
are
given
an
ordinary

spectator-‐in-‐the-‐film,
a
non-‐dancer
like
us
but
one
who’s
right
up
there
performing

nonetheless.
113

Revolution
boasts
a
total
of
five
musical
numbers,
not
including
scenes
of
rehearsal
and
free-‐
style
dancing,
adding
up
to
a
total
of
thirty
minutes
allotted
to
pure
dance.
Some
are
more
technically

achievable
than
others,
but
none
of
them
replicate
any
semblance
of
realistic
staging—they
exist
for

the
cinema
and
a
very
specific
filmmaking
style
at
that.
This
is
not
the
steadied
cinematic
gaze
of

pans,
tracking
shots,
and
long
takes,
but
the
MTV-‐style
glance
aesthetic
of
kinetic
edits
and
contrived

framing
to
showcase
the
3D
technology.
For
example,
one
Mob
number
involves
a
troupe
of
suited

dancers
in
fedoras
accosting
a
bank
and
executing
a
danced
interpretation
of
“Occupy
Wall
Street,”

using
dollar
bills
as
props
that
explode
like
dimensional
confetti
at
the
theater
audience.
This
piece
is

more
akin
to
actual
flash
mob
performances
and
has
a
similar
scope
and
scale,
but
the
choreography

is
still
designed
exclusively
to
be
captured
by
a
3D
camera,
so
while
it
makes
allusions
to
real
world

public
dance
practices,
it
is
ultimately
a
cinematic
gimmick.
In
this
same
vein,
another
number
takes

place
in
the
Museum
of
Modern
Art
and
it
stands
out
for
embodying
the
film’s
stylistic
and
thematic

intention.
The
Museum
sequence
occurs
thirty
minutes
into
the
film
and
serves
as
a
narrative
entry

point
for
Emily
to
first
witness
The
Mob
in
action.
At
Sean’s
behest,
she
attends
a
gala
opening
at
the

museum,
unaware
that
it
will
be
the
target
of
the
Mob’s
next
hit.
Before
conducting
this
highly

involved
coup
de
dance,
the
Mob’s
preparation
scenes
are
framed
by
Sean’s
explanatory
voice-‐over,
a

slick,
highly
stylized
montage
heavily
referencing
heist
and
caper
films.
Each
member
of
The
Mob
has

a
specialty
and
a
specific
task
in
every
“hit,”
and
beyond
the
dancing
itself,
these
ventures
require

113

Jane
Feuer,
Dance
in
The
Hollywood
Musical
(Bloomington
University
Press,
1982),
31.

460

avoiding
security,
surreptitiously
setting
up
the
technology,
and
maintaining
the
perimeter
of
their

makeshift
theater.
Sean
claims
that
this
museum
takeover
is
“our
own
spin
on
fine
art,”
succinctly

articulating
the
film’s
culture
clash
and
the
inherent
class
differences
between
street
art
and
high
art.

The
number
itself
is
stunning:
trompe
l’oeil
art
comes
to
life
in
a
dizzying
and
dazzling

disregard
for
temporal
and
spatial
reality,
as
Mob
dancers
turn
each
museum
gallery
into
living
art.

This
complex
performance
is
purely
cinematic—in
real
life
there
is
no
way
it
could
be
staged
or
that

anyone
could
direct
and
channel
a
dispersed
museum
crowd
at
exactly
the
right
musical
moments.

However,
it
plays
beautifully
on
screen
and
we
no
more
question
the
logic
than
we
wonder
why
Gene

Kelly
has
a
conveniently
deserted,
rain-‐soaked
street
all
to
himself.
It
is
not
feasible
but
it
is

completely
sumptuous
and
inventive.
What
appeared
to
be
a
bronze
sculpture
suddenly
comes
to
life

and
starts
doing
robotic
isolations;
a
unitard-‐clad
contortionist
seems
to
tumble
right
out
of
a

Mondrian-‐esque
painting
where
she
was
concealed
like
a
chameleon;
phosphorescent
ballerinas
with

LED-‐studded
tutus
do
bourrés
under
lambent
jellyfish
suspended
from
the
ceiling.
The
entire
scene

defies
all
narrative
logic
and
is
a
technically
impossible
feat,
but
to
question
it
would
defeat
the

purpose
of
cinematic
spectacle.
During
the
dance
numbers,
Step
Up
Revolution
becomes
totally

unmoored
from
realist
cinema.
Perhaps
after
its
decade-‐long
endurance,
the
Formula
Dance
Film,

like
the
musical
before
it,
has
earned
its
excursions
into
escapist
fantasy,
and
we
the
audience
have

been
trained
to
accept
it.

The
last
set-‐piece
is
an
epic
grand
finale,
and
clocking
in
at
just
over
ten
minutes,
it
is
also
the

longest
dance
number
in
any
Formula
Dance
Film
to
date,
further
evidence
that
this
film
is
founded

on
spectacle
and
that
plot
is
merely
incidental.
Dance
has
always
been
the
proposed
panacea

throughout
the
cycle,
and
here
it
attains
an
almost
magical
quality
and
transformative
power,

capable
of
saving
a
city
and
rejuvenating
the
previously
stodgy
civic
elders.
Even
the
mayor
cuts

loose
and
the
previously
heartless
tycoon
is
overcome
by
the
power
of
dance
and
moved
by
its

universal
humanism.
The
entire
number
relies
on
different,
ever-‐shifting
sets
in
a
seemingly
limitless

expansion
of
space;
it
is
never
fully
clear
where
they
are,
how
many
dancers
there
are,
or
just
exactly

how
big
this
waterfront
really
is.
Rather,
we
must
surrender
ourselves
to
a
multi-‐ring
circus
of
a

visual
and
sonic
onslaught.
Because
the
camera
jumps
from
one
station
to
the
next,
there
is
no
spatial

unity,
and
the
performance
could
never
be
viewed
as
a
whole.
Instead,
the
number
is
stunt-‐heavy
and

full
of
tricks
like
trampolines
that
propel
dancers
into
the
air
far
higher
than
a
normal
person
could

go.
During
this
wordless
sequence,
the
romance
storyline
likewise
achieves
reconciliation
and

capitulation
through
dance—no
dialogue
is
necessary
and
that
is
probably
for
the
best.
On
a
central

461

platform
at
the
water’s
edge,
Sean
and
Emily
effortlessly
perform
the
original
audition
piece
that
they

had
rehearsed
on
the
beach.
Their
romance
started
with
a
teasing
courtship
dance
that
cast
them
as

erotic
antagonists,
and
this
moment
serves
as
a
choreographic
bookend
that
represents
a
fulfillment

of
that
initial
chemistry.

The
Formula
Dance
Film
has
always
used
dance
as
a
metaphor
for
union—
both
romantic
and
cultural—and
here,
their
wordless
duet
ties
up
the
remnants
of
the
putative
plot.

On
Location:
Florida
Sunshine,
Race
in
the
Shadows

Whether
intentional
or
not,
the
entire
Step
Up
franchise
has
become
about
racial
and
cultural

appropriation,
with
white
characters
slumming
in
a
nominally
lower
class
milieu
for
inspiration
and

exhilaration.

These
films
are
reliant
on
the
concept
of
tasting
the
Other,
both
in
terms
of
romantic

liaisons
and
dance
styles.
This
format
is
the
exact
opposite
of
the
all-‐black
upward
mobility

narratives,
where
the
protagonists
are
intent
on
elevating
and
improving
their
spiritual
and
material

standing.

In
films
like
Stomp
the
Yard
and
How
She
Move,
the
black
protagonists
want
nothing
more

than
to
reject
the
trappings
of
ghetto
life,
to
avoid
being
victims
of
circumstance,
and
to
excel
in
the

mainstream
world.
This
opens
up
interesting
questions
about
the
Formula
Dance
cycle
as
a
whole:
in

a
genre
that
is
predicated
on
the
utopian
universality
of
dance,
what
does
it
mean
to
frame
racial
and

cultural
aspirations
in
these
terms?
Blacks
want
to
rise
up
and
escape
the
urban
streets,
while
whites

eagerly
enter
those
same
streets
for
enlightenment
and
experience.
These
contradictions
and

perplexities
are
manifest
in
all
the
Step
Up
films,
which
unavoidably
become
tales
of
white
identity,

exploration,
and
cultural
colonization.
This
is
no
more
apparent
than
in
Step
Up:
Revolution,
where

race
and
racially-‐based
disadvantage
do
not
exist;
instead,
it
is
a
feel-‐good
fairytale
about
plucky

white
kids
set
against
the
multicultural
backdrop
of
Miami,
which
conveys
just
enough
ethnic
flair
to

be
fashionable,
but
not
enough
content
or
commentary
to
be
meaningful.
Concurrently,
the
portrayal

of
the
Mob’s
home
turf
as
a
run-‐down-‐yet-‐charming
old
neighborhood
falls
into
the
pattern
of

commercial
films
tapping
into
what
David
J.
Leonard
calls
the
“ghettocentric
imagination,”
which

appeals
to
an
audience’s
collective
perception
of
minority
life
in
downtrodden
urban
spaces—partly

sensationalized,
partly
idealized:

What
is
most
interesting
about
this
recent
wave
of
hip-‐hop
ghettocentric
films
that
reflect
a

difference
from
its
predecessors…is
their
attempt
to
create
kinder
and
gentler
cinematic

ghettos.
They
take
America’s
poorest
communities
that
house
a
disproportionate
number
of

Latino
and
black
families
and
construct
them
as
idyllic
places
where
with
the
right
guidance

and
discipline,
full
participation
in
American
life
is
not
only
possible
but
also
likely...Of
equal

importance,
these
films
construct
a
more
“positive”
ghetto
experience
(according
to
critics

462

and
fans)
through
the
complete
erasure
of
poverty,
police
brutality,
deindustrialization,

mass
incarceration,
and
violence.
114

The
Miami
setting
necessarily
introduces
a
strong
Latin
American
influence
given
the
heavy

Cuban
population,
which
also
conveniently
creates
a
more
neutralized
and
safer
vision
of
ethnicity—
the
brown
buffer
of
Latino
culture
replaces
a
more
volatile
African
American
presence.
Additionally

in
terms
of
visual
design,
the
balmy
setting
allows
for
a
vivid
and
glorified
mise-‐en-‐scene.
In
the
first

three
films,
the
low-‐income
sprawl
of
the
Baltimore
projects
or
the
cramped
claustrophobia
of
New

York
City’s
warehouse
district
were
rendered
in
appropriately
industrial
hues
of
grey
and
dun,

whereas
the
fourth
film’s
version
of
Miami
is
presented
in
a
Technicolor
palette.
The
south
Florida

setting
necessitates
a
riotous
mélange
of
colors
and
iconography,
from
verdant
palm
trees
to

impossibly
turquoise
water,
to
the
shamelessly
bright
colors
of
the
city
itself—a
brazen
array
of

neons
and
pastels.

The
new
setting
also
ups
the
ante
for
exposed
flesh
and
twenty-‐something

debauchery,
and
the
entire
film
is
infused
with
a
sultry
sensuality
and
new
coastal
vibe,
thereby

accelerating
the
romance
plotline
by
dispensing
with
extraneous
dialogue
and
exposition
in
favor
of

steamy
embraces
on
a
white
sand
beach.
The
atmosphere
is
already
so
heavily
intoxicating
and

sexual
that
we
simply
accept
that
Sean
and
Emily
have
fallen
in
love,
even
though
there
are
no
actual

scenes
or
lines
of
dialogue
to
support
this.
Also
by
this
point
in
the
cycle,
a
viewer
already
knows
the

pattern,
and
this
predictability
in
no
way
negates
the
pleasure
anymore
than
the
formulaic
nature
of

the
Hollywood
musical
would
detract
from
its
audience
appeal.

Exposition
shots
abound
with
gratuitous
yet
apposite
vistas
of
tan
skin
in
tiny
bikinis,
and
the

camerawork
delights
in
the
hedonistic
locale,
objectifying
random
women
like
a
rap
video.
In
fact
a

staggering
number
of
hip-‐hop
videos
take
place
in
Miami,
either
on
its
beaches,
private
islands,
or

opulent
yachts.
In
pop
culture
representation,
Miami
is
associated
with
the
party
life
and
nouveau

riche
excess—an
extravagant
display
of
the
“baller”
lifestyle
that
rappers
and
hip-‐hop
artists
have

reconstituted
and
repurposed
as
desirable,
as
opposed
to
vulgar.
Depending
on
one’s
taste
culture,

the
accoutrement
of
the
rap
video
(gold
teeth
and
ostentatious
jewelry,
frothy
bottles
of
Cristal

poured
into
a
pimp
cup,
a
harem
of
strippers,
etc.)
would
be
deemed
tacky,
but
today’s
artists
have

recuperated
this
imagery.
Self-‐amused
with
an
almost
obscenely
confident
swagger,
rappers
dare
us

114

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

Praeger,
2006),
186.

463

to
criticize
them.
Consequently,
as
a
both
a
real
location
and
a
concept,
Miami
is
already
replete
with

associative
meaning
that
instantly
cues
us
to
a
lavish,
indulgent,
and
hypersexual
atmosphere.

As
is
now
expected
from
the
franchise,
racial
disparities
are
erased
in
favor
of
more
palatable

socioeconomic
disparities,
and
the
Miami
location
aids
in
this
whitewashing
by
using
the
city’s

demography.
Courtesy
of
the
setting
with
its
notable
South
American
population,
Latinos
have

become
proxy
blacks,
ensuring
just
the
right
amount
of
non-‐threatening
ethnic
flavor
through
a

strategy
that
has
become
common
film
industry
practice.
Miami
is
nicknamed
“the
Capital
of
Latin

America,”
which
is
no
hyperbole
given
that
it
has
a
major
Cuban
population
and
a
Spanish-‐speaking

majority.
Using
brown
skin
as
a
buffer
zone
between
white
and
black
has
a
long
cinematic
history,

and
this
tactic
has
already
been
seen
in
other
Step
Up
films,
where
salsa-‐dancing
provides
an

acceptable
amount
of
the
Other,
without
being
as
polarizing
as
purely
black
hip-‐hop.
Twelve
years

earlier,
Derek
commands
Sara
to
“put
some
s-‐e-‐x
in
those
h-‐i-‐p-‐s,”
as
part
of
their
the
courtship
in

Save
the
Last
Dance.
This
candid
interracial
sensuality
between
Sara
and
Derek
is
simply
not
possible

within
the
Step
Up
universe—the
image
of
a
black
man
grinding
his
pelvis
against
a
white
girl
and

telling
her
to
be
more
sexual
seems
unthinkable
in
these
films,
attesting
to
the
gradual
but
wholesale

sanitizing
and
whitewashing
of
the
genre.

White
Man’s
Burden:
The
Problems
of
Privilege

All
Formula
Dance
Films
stage
a
culture
clash,
and
Revolution
relies
on
a
combination
of
tried-‐
and-‐true
adversarial
elements.
There
is
the
Capra-‐esque
binary
of
callous
rich
vs.
earnest
poor,

represented
by
the
“slum”
residents
who
oppose
the
greedy
developers
like
natives
resisting

mercenary
colonists.
Simultaneously,
the
film
dramatizes
the
clash
between
high
art
vs.
street
art,
as

portrayed
by
Sean’s
self-‐taught
improvised
dance
against
Emily’s
classical
training;
and
finally,

Revolution
showcases
the
clash
between
independent
grassroots
artists
vs.
corporate
hegemony
and

institutional
authority,
as
represented
by
The
Mob
and
its
struggle
for
viability.
Given
the
nature
of

The
Mob’s
dance
style,
the
film
also
introduces
a
debate
over
the
designation
of
performance
art—is

it
a
legitimate
art
form
or
a
wanton
act
of
public
disturbance
and
vandalism?

The
plot-‐point
of
class
distinction
is
immediately
inlaid
after
the
first
dance
number.

Significantly,
Sean
and
his
Mob
compatriots
are
all
waiters
and
part
of
a
purported
underclass,
which

is
intended
to
make
them
sympathetic
as
the
film
strains
to
convince
us
of
their
marginalized,

persecuted
status.
This
is
one
of
the
weakest
and
most
problematic
aspects
of
Revolution:
the

specious
creation
of
a
supposed
minority
class,
in
a
film
that
asks
us
to
empathize
with
talented

464

white
kids
who
simply
refuse
to
have
real
careers.
Sean’s
existential
dilemma
is
that
he
would
rather

follow
his
dancing
dreams
than
return
to
school,
and
he
desperately
wants
to
“be
a
part
of

something.”
Within
my
proposed
analytic
framework
for
the
genre,
and
in
comparison
to
the
more

provocative
and
pressing
racial
problems
of
earlier
films,
it
is
difficult
to
muster
a
real
sense
of

urgency
and
sympathy
for
Sean.
As
an
exceedingly
handsome
white
male,
he
does
not
seem
to
have

any
real
disadvantages,
so
his
character
goal
is
amorphously
defined
as
wanting
to
achieve
some
sort

of
significance
in
the
world.
The
whole
franchise
has
precipitously
become
about
First
World

problems
and
white
privilege:
while
the
narrative
encourages
us
to
identify
with
these
willful
starry-‐
eyed
young
dreamers,
it
is
equally
difficult
to
ignore
that
fact
that
they
are
also
naïve
headstrong
kids

who
want
to
pursue
an
ephemeral
dream
in
an
unstable
field,
heedlessly
ignoring
adult
advice.

The
Mob’s
dilemma
is
a
tough
sell,
and
even
though
the
adults
are
cast
as
draconian

disciplinarians
who
are
incapable
of
understanding
the
renegade
youth,
one
must
also
acknowledge

the
soundness
of
their
advice:
in
reality
it
is
foolish
not
to
have
a
college
degree
as
a
backup,
not
to

have
a
contingency
plan
in
case
the
big
break
never
comes
and
a
professional
dance
career
never

materializes,
or
when
the
implacability
of
age
and
injury
curtail
that
career.
Dance
may
be
beautiful

and
transcendental,
but
in
the
earthly,
practical
realm,
it
is
also
just
another
job
in
the
highly
unstable

and
unpredictable
world
of
the
performing
arts.
To
see
characters
turning
down
opportunities
for

employment
and
education
in
a
shaky
2012
economy
reads
more
like
foolhardy
caprice
than
artistic

integrity
and
dedication.
Sean
zealously
believes
in
the
strength
of
their
cause,
which
he
conveys
in

global
terms,
“When
The
Mob
speaks,
everyone
listens.”
They
construct
themselves
as
the
voice
of

the
people,
a
populist
force
to
uplift
the
oppressed
and
let
the
subaltern
speak
(or
dance).
However

this
underclass
insistence
does
not
quite
work—they
have
chosen
to
be
waiters,
to
drop
out
of
school,

to
refuse
high-‐paying
jobs
and
to
be
bohemian
wastrels,
and
this
voluntary
sacrifice
is
simply

incomparable
to
a
truly
persecuted
minority
experience.
Revolution,
engages
in
an
invidious
and

potentially
damaging
construction,
elevating
and
equalizing
its
characters’
self-‐induced
problems

alongside
the
imminent
problems
of
other
minority
characters
like
Derek,
Rayana,
et
al.
The

inescapable
irony
is
that
the
black
kids
in
earlier
Formula
Dance
Films
want
nothing
more
in
life
that

to
get
into
college
and
have
a
respectable
career;
in
this
film,
the
whites
kids
are
dropping
out
of

college—a
life
choice
luxury
not
afforded
to
other
races.

When
Sean
first
brings
Emily
to
The
Mob’s
rehearsal
warehouse,
his
skeptical
partner
Matt
is

indignant
over
the
intrusion
of
this
pretty,
posh
girl
whom
he
dubs
“Cinderella.”
He
claims,
“What
we

do
is
dangerous”
and
perhaps
that
is
true
in
this
Disneyfied
fantasy
version
of
Miami
that
they

465

inhabit,
but
his
vehemence
is
also
laughable
when
compared
to
real
urban
danger,
like
the
gun

violence
and
rape
that
memorably
punctuate
other
more
realist
Formula
Dance
Films.

In
one

especially
telling
scene,
Sean
and
Emily
enact
a
princess
and
pauper
moment
as
he
gives
her
a
tour
of

his
old
neighborhood.

He
regales
her
with
reminiscences
from
his
professed
street
upbringing
and

sheepishly
acknowledges,
“It’s
not
exactly
Star
Island,”
referring
to
the
highly
exclusive
South
Beach

community.
However,
like
many
doe-‐eyed,
slumming
heroines
before
her,
Emily
is
utterly
charmed

by
the
neighborhood
and
romanticizes
its
picturesque
poverty
as
being
earthy
and
real.
Emily
serves

as
the
poor
little
rich
girl
and
Sean
is
the
charismatic
ruffian,
but
in
an
important
distinction,
he
has

also
chosen
poverty
through
his
own
stubborn
volition.
It
is
not
some
externally
imposed,

unalterable
condition.
He
is
not
imprisoned
by
the
color
of
his
skin.
He
has
had
ample
opportunity
for

advancement
and
entrance
into
the
mainstream
world
and
has
rejected
it.
This
makes
for
a
quixotic

artistic
hero,
but
Sean
is
not
a
victim
of
virulent
prejudice.
Significantly,
as
Sean
recounts
his
slum

childhood,
he
refers
to
“wildin’
out,”
a
phrase
that
has
its
origins
in
the
black
community
and
refers
to

youth
having
fun
and
getting
into
trouble,
and
when
used
by
authoritarian
or
parental
culture,
it
has

the
negative
connotation
of
illicit
and
dissolute
behavior.
Collins
explains
the
etymology
and
its

implications
in
Black
Sexual
Politics,
“Drawing
upon
a
historical
discourse
on
Black
promiscuity,
the

phrase
“to
go
buck
wild”
morphed
into
the
new
verb
of
“wilding”
that
appeared
virtually

overnight…Resurrecting
images
of
Black
men
as
predatory
and
wild,
rape
and
“wilding”
became

inextricably
linked
with
Black
masculinity”.
115

It
is
a
distinctly
“black
thing,”
but
this
white
boy
has

smoothly
and
easily
appropriated
black
vernacular,
behavior,
and
social
customs,
becoming
a
proxy

black
person
while
the
actual
black
people
are
physically
absent
from
the
film’s
central
cast.
This
is

one
of
many
examples
of
the
subtle
but
powerful
racial
effacement
that
pervades
the
entire
Step
Up

franchise.

Completely
neutralized
and
inoffensive,
with
beautiful
bland
white
leads,
Step
Up:
Revolution

is
essentially
a
European
fairytale
that
has
been
updated
and
shifted
to
Miami.

Despite
the
seemingly

radical
nature
that
its
title
suggests,
it
is
the
most
insipid
entry
to
date
and
makes
How
She
Move
and

Save
the
Last
Dance
seem
like
unflinchingly
gritty
docu-‐dramas
in
comparison.
Again,
this
Neverland

approach
can
be
ascribed
to
the
overall
unreality
of
the
film
as
a
whole,
and
it
should
not
impede
a

viewer’s
enjoyment,
but
even
a
Formula
Dance
fan
would
be
forced
to
note
the
sharp
diminution,
the

lessening
of
the
problems,
and
the
mitigation
of
threat
and
danger.
Compared
to
earlier
Formula

115

Patricia
Hill
Collins,
Black
Sexual
Politics:
African
Americans,
Gender,
and
the
New
Racism

(New
York:
Routledge,
2004),
103.

466

Dance
Films
that
retained
a
sociological
immediacy
through
the
constant
threat
of
drugs,
gangs,

imprisonment,
and
even
death,
the
privileged
problems
in
Revolution
are
not
especially
dire,

pertinent,
or
suspenseful.
Not
only
has
the
Step
Up
series
been
entirely
whitewashed,
it
has
also
been

tamed,
toned
down,
and
saniti

Abstract (if available)

Abstract An examination of the recent urban dance genre in regards to cultural appropriation, cinematic representations of race, and the commodification of Black style.

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University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses

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Asset Metadata

Creator Piday-Warren, Marika (author)

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

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

School School of Cinematic Arts

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Cinema-Television (Critical Studies)

Publication Date 07/24/2015

Defense Date 04/08/2015

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag Black commodity culture,Dance,hip-hop culture,OAI-PMH Harvest,popular film,Race,racialized bodies

Format application/pdf (imt)

Language English

Advisor Jewell, Richard B. (committee chair), Casper, Drew (committee member), Frazier, Robeson Taj (committee member), Imre, Anikó (committee member), McPherson, Tara (committee member)

Creator Email mpidaywarren@gmail.com,pidaywar@usc.edu

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c3-606079

Unique identifier UC11301821

Identifier etd-PidayWarre-3693.pdf (filename),usctheses-c3-606079 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-PidayWarre-3693.pdf

Dmrecord 606079

Document Type Dissertation

Format application/pdf (imt)

Rights Piday-Warren, Marika

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the a...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

Repository Location USC Digital Library, University of Southern California, University Park Campus MC 2810, 3434 South Grand Avenue, 2nd Floor, Los Angeles, California 90089-2810, USA