Farewell Marama . . . out she dances
Alas poor Marama. We knew her well enough. It was always Christmas when she took to the dance floor; she was the ham.
But it was a meal served cold on last night’s
became the fourth contestant to leave the show — in the cruel conditions of the dance-off, which basically allows an opportunity for one dancer to be kicked in the teeth twice.
First, they get smashed over by the public, who play a crucial role in deciding which two contestants receive the lowest scores.
Last night it was Marama Fox, and Chris the cricket player. And then the judges finish off the job. They chose Marama. She took it graciously but it was hard to watch.
There was a genuine reluctance on behalf of the judges to vote off either her or Chris. You could tell what they were thinking. It was written all over their faces.
They were thinking they ought to be signing the death warrant of another contestant.
They probably already had; the ink was dry, the envelope was sealed; it was obvious who ought to have been put in the electric chair and zapped, the volts left running just for the hell of it.
But no. They were forced to condemn either Marama or Chris. Rachel gently, almost lovingly escorted Marama to the chair. It was left to Judge Julz. He went deep inside himself. He found that place where language doesn’t exist.
The inside of his head is like a cave; Julz is the only speleologist who can go in there, and live television showed the effort that took, his gasps, his mutterings, his anguish.
Finally he found secure footing. In a soft, quiet voice, so quiet that all of New Zealand leaned forward to hear it, Julz voted to put Chris to death.
A tie-breaker. A hung court. As head judge, Camilla was given ultimate authority, and she chose Marama.
Well, it was always going to happen. The oldest contestant was bizarrely paired with what seemed to be the youngest dance partner. It didn’t make a lick of sense to see them together on the dance floor.
Still, they had fun while it lasted, and Marama’s stagy, extroverted performances were a warm reminder that
is essentially like a good night down at the RSA.
She was the cheerful old duck getting a bit tipsy and having a knees-up on a Friday night at the Razza in Putaruru or Waikanae, Mosgiel or Stoke, Upper Hutt or Ellerslie. There was a tremendously appealing New Zealandness about her. She was a character.
Unfortunately, she didn’t really have much of a plot. Paired with a much, much younger man, she was pretty much dancing solo.
The first three contestants to be voted off were from reality TV shows.
They weren’t real enough. Marama was kind of too real.
Putaruru, Ellerslie . . . Who’s next for the chop? Who’s looking good to go the whole way? Who’s in between?
Rog and that unspeakable contestant, the one who should be sitting in an electric chair right now, his bones smoking.
Sam and Jess and Shav. Chris and Suzy and Robert. But who knows? Ten episodes in, the first dance-off completed, co-host Dai Henwood relaxing into the role, co-host Sharyn Casey totally owning it,
operates on whim and enigma, mystery and drama, and above all the principle that life — and decisions, and votes, and the public mood — sometimes just ain’t fair or right. David Seymour, still on the show, surviving to dance badly another day. God almighty.