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Shall We Dance?

For lovers of ballroom dance who’ve seen and enjoyed the offbeat and humorous Australian film Ballroom Dancing, you’ll likely enjoy the subtitled Japanese film from 1996 called Shall We Dance? While the poor choice of colour (yellow) for the subtitles causes them to be obscured sometimes, it’s not absolutely necessary to read all the text. It’s not at all hard to follow along.

The film is based on the premise that in Japanese society, publicly touching each other is shameful. Hence the reason it was originally anathema to the Japanese to shake hands, and also why they bow instead. At least until American culture intruded on their lifestyles.

Shall We Dance? follows the debonair main character (whose name I didn’t catch), an office worker who has just acquired a mortgage, and is feeling overwhelmed with having to work such long days to pay for the new home. One night on his way home from work, he spies a dance studio through the windows of the subway car, entranced by the elegant young teacher visible through the studio window. He has one desire, to dance with her, works up the courage to go in, and ends up taking lessons.

A short time after, he finds out that his single, bald boss, Aoki-san, has secretly been taking lessons for five years, wearing a kooky wig as a disguise. Everyone thinks he’s a “bald pervert”, but what Aoki says is poetic: that dancing frees him up, makes him feel good. (We see early on in the film, Aoki move about the office at right-angle turns. It becomes clear later, once we know he’s an aspiring dancer. What’s more amusing is to actually see how free he is with his movements when he does his Latin-style dance. Much later on in the movie, when his bitter dance partner challenges him to cast off his wig, he’s freed up even more.)

Aoki and the main character agree to keep their secret, and start frequenting weekend dance parties. The latter character now seems happier at home, often doing a two-step when he thinks no one is watching. But his wife and daughter spy him dancing in the bedroom, and are suspecting that he’s having an affair because he’s so happy. The wife hires a private investigator, who follows the husband, only to find he’s simply taking dance lessons. The investigator tells her as much, telling her also not to worry. We soon see the wife reading a book and trying out some steps for herself, after seeing pictures of her husband seeming quite happy for a change, but don’t see her again until much later, when he’s in an amateur competition. His daughter calls out to him, surprising him, causing him to stumble and step on his partners dress, tearing it.

I love these kinds of movies. It might be my culture or my age, being weaned on movies with Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, Gene Kelly, and others - not to mention the fact that just about every East Indian movie I’ve seen, even the dramas, have dancing in them. Also, my immediate family has had very close friends who are world-renowned classical dancers and choreographers. I wanted to be a “modern” dancer at one time. As someone who once danced a lot in nightclubs, as well as having performed on stage in front of hundreds of people, I was lamenting today while sitting on the bus on my way home, my cane in front of me, that I could no longer dance without pain.

Given this reminiscing, maybe it’s kismet that this film was showing tonight, and that I just happened to catch it as it was starting. I’m reminded of a young woman I danced with in Toronto in my mid-20s, at my favourite hangout, the Big Bop - which was a popular place for sock hops and ballroom dances in the 50s and 60s. This young woman, whose name to this day I don’t know, was a nursing student who only came out to play about once a month. She was always with a group of nursing students, some of whom I knew by name, others whom I didn’t. For some reason, I always referred to her incorrectly as “Margaret”, who was actually one of the other nurses I didn’t know very well, but resembled her.

M, as I’ll refer to her, took my breath away with her ability and desire to dance with me. During the one night a month or so that I saw her at the Big Bop, she and I would dance Ballroom-style, spinning each other as if we’d danced together forever - especially when “our” favourite song was playing: The Lion Sleeps Tonight (Wim-o-way). I don’t know exactly what it was, but I was always too afraid to ask her out. She never danced with any other guy while I was there, but I was still reluctant - possibly because she’d always come later at night, and I’d already have had a few drinks in me. Or possibly because I was embarrassed by the fact that I didn’t know her name and didn’t have enough sense in my semi-drunkenness to ask one of her nurse friends. Even more embarrassing to me was that despite hearing me refer to her as Margaret, she never corrected me - possibly too shy to do so.

Somewhere in the depths of my mind, I vaguely recall screwing up the courage one time to ask her out. She said yes, but when I handed her my “little blue book” for her phone number, she wrote it down without her name, possibly because she didn’t want to embarrass me. I’ve carried a torch for her ever since, sometimes wondering if maybe the universe would ever conspire to bring us together again, hoping that if it did, that she would recognize me. (She always knew my name.)

I know that in the 80s, at least in Toronto, young women decided whether they’d date a guy by whether he danced at all or not. I count those dances with M amongst the most enjoyable experiences in my life. We never said a word to each other while we danced, able to somehow feel the right steps to move in synchrony with each other. There were no expectations, just enjoyment. It was therapeutic and freeing as well. And yet, I’ve never heard of dance as a form of therapy.

It’s true that some religions ban dancing because it’s associated with premarital sex. This isn’t surprising, considering that most forms of dance increase blood flow and thus often stir up the libido. It also isn’t unusual for ballroom dance partners to be lovers, considering how passionate some of the Latin styles are. Nevertheless, from my own positive experiences, I know that I’ve never felt down when I danced. It’s hard to be depressed when your blood is flowing and endorphins are raising your state of mind.

But the lesson of course is that you should never let regret rule you. While I’m not saying that you should pursue everyone you are interested in, if there is someone who has shown interest in you without a doubt, don’t live your life regretting that you didn’t at least try to ask them out. Always allow them a graceful way out, in case you’ve either misread their signals or they aren’t aware of their own interest in you. I wish I’d known this when I was younger.