Jadine Louie, conductor of the San Francisco Winds of Freedom orchestra and artistic director of tonight's "Dance-Along Nutcracker," assures the crowd: "You don't have to know the story of The Nutcracker to dance along. You don't have to know the music to dance along. In fact, you don't have to dance along." The crowd smiles.
"But if you want to, you don't have to be wearing a costume to dance along. And despite rumors to the contrary, you do not have to dance in a counterclockwise direction."
After a humorous demonstration by Professor Marvel's Wild West Handbell Chorale -- handbell chorales, by their very nature, are humorous, and doubly so when dressed as cows -- the Winds of Freedom launch into "Welcome Christmas" from How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Cheer San Francisco, a wacky, slightly incompetent dance troupe, performs the part of the Whos (of Whoville) by bounding up and down the large central aisle of the room. This clearly amuses the crowd, but doesn't keep them from seeming somewhat preoccupied.
"We've been waiting for this all year," explains Frank Holger, a portly man whose graying temples give him an air of distinction. He pats his wife's hand absent-mindedly and surveys the room with palpable urgency.
"Oh yes, it's good fun," says Mrs. Holger with a motherly smile. "You'll see."
Intermission is called, and Frank is visibly relieved. He jumps up and runs to the bathroom before approaching the Tutus-R-Us Boutique. Dozens of small children in fairy costumes and ballet outfits scurry into the center aisle and commence spinning while their parents watch from the sidelines.
"We should really practice," says a trendy-looking man in a leotard. He grabs his companion's arm and tries to pull him out of his chair but is met with resistance and much squirming. "It's his first time," confesses the protagonist, who finally gives up and goes off to plie on his own.
A slight dimming of the lights brings the crowd back to their seats, and the band launches into some festive holiday cheer. A few seconds into the second piece, a red neon sign hanging above the stage flickers into life: "ALL DANCE." The crowd needs no further prompting. They are on their feet before the conductor has a chance to point with her baton. Men and women, old and young, twirl into the center aisle in a flurry of tutus and fairy wands. Some couples stick to what they know, doing three-step or western swing moves, but others attempt jubilant, if short, ballet leaps.
"You said that I didn't have to dance," whines a twentysomething woman as her mother beckons to her from the dance floor. As if in agreement the "ALL DANCE" sign suddenly goes dark. The crowd takes their seats and Cheer San Francisco enters again dressed as toy soldiers in hot pants. They perform a strange synchronized-swimming routine that ends in a cancan line and exit amid much applause. Again the "ALL DANCE" sign lights, and the crowd bounds onto the dance floor. Fewer people remain in their seats this time; the reticent succumb to the general lack of shame pervading the room. Businessmen and drag queens wrap second and third tutus around their necks and skip around the chairs. Shy children are carried into the fray upon their parents' shoulders. Unencumbered dancers attempt to choreograph scenes, which quickly deteriorate into chaos and buffoonery. Everyone laughs and frolics, but despite the madcap indulgence of the event, when the sign goes dark, the dancers quickly compose themselves and sit.
From the stage Louie beams at the crowd and announces the arrival of the Sugarplum Fairy, as portrayed by the Widow Norton. The stout drag queen, otherwise known as Jose Sarria, is delivered by an entourage of studly lads who gaze in admiration as she elegantly waddles through the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy. The children -- of all ages -- love her, but they are anxious to prove their own Sugarplum status. The following "ALL DANCE" resembles a spontaneous and clumsy Rite of Spring. Yards of pastel gauze whirl past as women spin, men cavort, and children leap. Those still sitting are tapped by magic wands and smiles become painful for their permanence. It is utterly ridiculous.
"What would the aliens think if they landed right now?" laughs a gent in a wool sweater and a green tutu.
That everyone is completely insane. That people over 10 should never be allowed within arm's reach of a fairy wand. That if you're looking for Never-Never Land -- the place where children refuse to grow up -- San Francisco is about as close as you can get.
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By Silke Tudor
