We are loyal to no one. We’ll take a show without choreographer Wade Robson if it means a show without aerobics instructor Tyce D’Orio. We’ll forget old favorites like Hok as we champion new favorites like Neil. We’ll never forgive a misstep despite the stunning flip you did five seconds earlier. Definitely schizoid, we’re fixated on Nigel’s teeth, Mary’s upper lip, and the crotch shots in the opening credits. Oh, wait. We’re supposed to be watching the dancers!
Lacey’s hip-hop mannequin was her at her cold-blooded best. Her slow waltz with Pasha was classy but dull. She flapped her ass with the best of them in her sexploitation solo.
Lauren smiles too much, but when her eyes beam panic, our resentment relents. She’s the group’s late bloomer who last night nailed some odd Mia Michaelisms, an ornate disco routine, and her unflagging solo.
Sabra radiates joy like no one’s business: Problem is her Paso Doble and jazz numbers with Neil required serious fire and cool detachment respectively. Last night, for the first time, she faltered.
Danny has mastered the shit-eating grin. Disco makes him break into a sweat while contemporary dance — be it his own or Mia's — is always done with calm efficiency.
Neil is a male Esther Williams. He wants to act, he’s comely, and he’s got a repertoire of splashy tricks: the plunge in his eighties-themed boardroom duet; his signature flips whenever he can.
Pasha squeaks cute from his gap-toothed smile. He doesn’t take himself seriously as a hip-hop humping geek; we don’t take him seriously sashaying around a freestanding dress we suspect he'd like to wear. —Drew Pisarra