Dance with Me

Bomb Rating: 

This might have been the longest movie I've everhad to sit through -- it just WOULD NOT END. I think if somebody offered me the choice of sitting through "Dance with Me" or say, "Shoah," I'd cough up the next nine hours of my life without batting an eyelash. I mean, it was as if Hollywood wolfed down a nice "Strictly Ballroom" and "Shall We Dance" sandwich, allowed its body to digest all the nutrients, and then rammed a minicam into its large intestine to see the creeping amalgam of resultant waste: "Dance with Me."

It's the story of this Cuban guy named Rafael (Chayanne) who leaves Cuba for a sorry-ass job as a maintenance guy at a dance studio in El Paso. Kris Kristofferson hires him and if you don't know within the first thirty seconds of them meeting each other that they're father and son, please dip your genitals in epoxy before you're given a chance to breed. And what's up with Kris Kristofferson? He's always wearing an expression that implies he's got his nose in the ass of a sick dog.

Rafael quickly falls in love with the studio's prize dance instructor, Ruby (Vanessa Williams), but is put off by her mechanical approach to dancing because he's Latin and dancing is just sort of in his blood. At this point, the film basically undergoes a Reggie Whitization. The director simplifies the superiority of the Cuban lifestyle by pointing out that they don't have decaffeinated coffee and they dance in large groups, exchanging partners at will. They're free and natural, damn it! Like Reggie's Mexicans are with families, Cubans are with dancing.

Basically, the director seems to think that all anybody wants to do is watch these people dance and consequently, she drags those scenes out so long you start to think that dancing may actually be a form of brainwashing. The only thing that allowed me to maintain my sanity was watching this guy Chayanne and wondering what kind of wacko only has one name? It sounds to me like he should think about becoming a spice girl.

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