I don’t want to start off this recap on a morose note, but face it: Even So You Think You Can Dance, with its endless barrage of stellar performances and eye-popping athleticism, can feel depressing when you know you’re watching the wrong contestants in the final performance show. Admit it, dammit! Drop your Deeley-esque grin and say it loud. We can bandy Cyrus‘ many strengths — his self-defined style, sinister stage command, trademark affability, and ear jewelry that Christina Applegate said she wanted to throw basketballs through, or something — but his admirable efforts don’t convey the thrill of So You Think You Can Dance. I want the pow. The freaky awe of people with too many gifts. This show is about watching performers who’ve not only mastered dance, but adaptability too, and it’s safe to say Cyrus is merely a respectable novice in both areas. America, sometimes you get it right and vote for Kelly Clarkson and Lauren Froderman. Other times you stab me in the abdomen and vote for Lee DeWyze and Cyrus. The fickleness makes you enigmatic and keeps you attractive, I guess.
Since there were over 579 routines performed on Tuesday’s show (some choreographed by “three-time Nemmy-ominee“ Stacey Tookey, said a spoonerism-spewing Mary Murphy), I’m keeping my rankings simple and grading each dancer’s overall work for the evening. I do what I can to make unqualified assessments easier for all of us.
Child, he worked. He worked up, down, and around in wobbly cartwheels when he had to. But you know who else does that? Amateur celebrities on Dancing With The Stars. And I’ll be damned if Cyrus didn’t look like Chad Ochocinco or Donny Osmond as he essentially strolled aound with Eliana during their paso doble together. He seemed to be thinking hard about each individual step, nervous about timing far more than execution. That carefulness doesn’t exactly make me clap my ass in triumph (something I do involuntarily when excited). He fared much better during his duets with Tiffany and Chehon; with Tiffany in a hip-hop routine, he clawed, scraped, boomed with kinetic stage presence, and basically blasted Tiffany with big, scary angst. It was an ideal number for the two performers, as they were allowed to embrace their differences and act as adversaries during the majority of the routine. With Chehon in a Sonya Tayeh jazz number, Cyrus didn’t perform much in the way of scene-stealing choreography, but he held his own as symmetrical topaz angel porn star Chehon sliced through the air with his hot, sexual knifeyness.
Naturally, Cyrus’ best moments of the evening were in the vein of his previous best moments — pure “animation,” his electrified hip-hop niche, in both a sweet solo and a frighteningly synchronized partnership with tWitch. Those two gents looked like battery-operated robocops out there. Like if the automaton from Hugo sprang to life and knew the whole catalog of Afrika Bambaataa. As usual, Cyrus dished out a sizable effort, but he’s not worthy of the season nine title. I say prepare yourself for further depression, because I’m pretty sure he will win the final prize. And I will “animate” into an electrified fury like Blanka from Street Fighter II when he does.
God bless this hot, crazy-smiling lord of leaping. Hot, hot Chehon. Chehot. Chehot-to-trot. First of all, tell me you threw yourself through the TV (leaving a Wile E. Coyote-shaped imprint in the monitor) when Chehon bounded onstage wearing that white, skin-tight ballerina man ensemble. Couldn’t you have just died and then cried in the casket? It was so bulge-y that I kept trying to capture his junk in my living room with a small net. I almost bagged it! His form was spectacular during that routine with the gorgeous Eliana, even if he didn’t get to snag much attention for himself. (In fact, his workload was about an eighth as much as Eliana’s. An infuriating fraction.)
He rebounded with more starmaking work in his contemporary routine with all-star Allison, where he portrayed the part of a guy who’s choosing to leave his relationship to follow success. For once, it was a solid acting showcase for Chehon, an exhibition of power, dismissiveness, poetic regret, ambition, and love. And he sold all of it. Really, all of it. That performance barely outshined his respectable and world-stoppingly shirtless duet with Cyrus and his killer rumba with Tiffany. Hips, darling! Hips, he has. And the kind of pert ass that should be required of all matadors. It says something when I still believe in your sexual domination as you dance to a Norah Jones song. I hear that voice and immediately wonder if I’m at Starbucks. Seriously, Norah Jones could sing “Cop Killer” and I’d still want a scone, so props to Chehon for staying defiant and werqing.