IN WHICH I REPORT ON AN HOUR AND A HALF OF TV VIEWED IN FIFTEEN MINUTES: According to Isaac's favorite news source, the Captivate Network, Yahoo's search engine is logging six times as many searches for Mario Lopez as for Emmitt Smith. To me, this just means that more people are scratching their head wondering who Mario Lopez is than who Emmitt Smith is. (Just in case anyone who might possibly consider voting for Lopez turns up on the Dallas Cowboys' website, an article there refers to him as "former teen-heartthrob/talk-show host/B-list actor Mario Lopez" while discussing Smith's "football celebrity and icon status." Hee.) It does, however, provide as good a segue as any into discussion of last night's penultimate episode of Dancing with the Stars.
DwtS is, of course, one of those shows that was made for the DVR -- see Tom Bergeron's face, be-doop be-doop be-doop until he's gone and the dancing begins. I've generally not been particularly interested in this season, except for Emmitt Smith, who I find to be quite cuddly, charming, and fun to watch. And even though I fast-forward through his performances about half the time, Mario Lopez is quite a good dancer of the swivelly-hips genre. But even these two finalists (who were undoubtedly the correct ones to make the final two -- I couldn't stomach another minute of Joey Lawrence) could not overcome last night's major obstacle: those darned freestyle routines.
After weeks and weeks of flowy waltzes and foxtrots, and an assortment of Latin dances that I can now distinguish among on sight (Samba? check. Rhumba? Check. Paso Doble? Check.), now we need to see an oddly lumbering Emmitt Smith channeling MC Hammer and Mario Lopez looking like an eighth grade boy at a 1984 bar mitzvah? Oh, and the lifts, the lifts -- they can't do lifts all season and then suddenly have to learn five of them for the finale? Note to producers: ballroom dancers should stick to ballroom choreography. If you're gonna try to bring the hip hop for the finale, at least bring Shane Sparks or Dan Karaty to the party so that the choreography doesn't suck. Not that any of the judges seemed to care -- all three of them were inexplicably bubbling over with the 10s.
And so tonight we shall be-doop through 57 minutes of filler before the winner is announced. I am unlikely to post again on this topic, so feel free to assume a post whose content may be summarized as "Yay!" if Smith adds this championship to his burgeoning trophy case.