So You Think You Can Dance has the distinction of being one of the only programs on television that reduces me to a blubbering mess. Just thinking of The Bench or Bleeding Love makes me want to run to a box of Kleenex, grab some chocolates, and hunker down and read a Nicholas Sparks novel while sobbing my eyes out. And I can't stand Nicholas Sparks!
But, last night, I found myself more than an hour and a half through the show feeling... nothing. Zilch. Nada. In fact, I haven't felt so emotionally dead since Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Because honestly, it seemed as though everyone phoned it in. (Surprising, since last week's performance episode was so awe-inspiring.) Nigel seemed more focused on the World Cup than what was going on up on stage. The dancers looked more bored than a sleep-deprived Twilight star. The costumers forced the most heinous clothing on our dancers, and dressed Mia and Nigel as if they were Mama and Greg Brady. (As for that random ruffle on Mia's shoulder: did it remind anyone else of Lina Lamont's microphone-hiding flower pin?) Even the editors tried to convince us that the backstage footage shown at the beginning of the evening was live - when we clearly could tell it was from last week's results show, based on the clothing the contestants were wearing. Laziness, laziness, laziness!
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