Ever since the heyday of 1980’s action movies, guys worldwide have attempted to recreate the muscle-bound Schwarzenegger-in-his-prime physique, as a means to woo the ladies. Had they spent an evening in a packed cinema - full of ladies screaming at a shirtless Patrick Swayze; holding Jennifer Grey’s stomach as she perched far above his head within a lush summer lake. It may have dawned upon them they were in fact, pumping in the wrong direction.
I have never met a man who likes the movie, Dirty Dancing. Conversely, I cannot remember a single female who didn’t believe it was the greatest slice of Hollywood pie, since Orson Wells explained the meaning of ‘Rosebud’. As a female – and a once hormonal nine-year-old in 1987, my girlfriend loves the movie. Like ET, Pirates Of The Caribbean, and five of the six Star Wars movies, I had never seen it; I never got the fuss with those Lucas movies – boy fights his Dad, has a few wars, saves the sister he wants to shag, and now and again meets a wise distorted Chihuahua - who ended up shilling for Vodafone.
The story is straightforward; a young rich girl (Jennifer Grey), visits a summer retreat in the country with her family, where she discovers proletarian Mumbo Dancers/Rent Boys who engage in regular bouts of ‘dirty dancing’; publicly for money, privately for their own amusement. After befriending lead dancer (Patrick Swayze), who teaches her to ‘dirty dance’, a love affair slowly blossoms. An hour or so later of shocks, surprises, and a young-girl's coming of age through sex, swing, and simple psychological warfare, and the movie finishes with the two, together as one – dancing, in love, and probably going to engage in lots of wild, passionate, good old fashioned caveman-style sex; hey, I am writing this from how I imagine women imagine, and this is what I imagine.
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