t seems unfair—or maybe inappropriate—to review Mad Hot Ballroom through any critical apparatus. It’s a purely experiential pleasure, directly wonderful. The film, about youth, energy and the force of enthusiasm, is a total success.

The simple, unassuming concept—working class children given the opportunity to take on the discipline and poise of ballroom dancing—is enthralling. The children are in some ways more innocent than expected, nervous about touching one another and showing some initial trepidation about the whole project. However, the film also exposes their cold awareness of the world, some of the young girls almost manically single-minded about marrying someone who doesn’t deal drugs. The camera, so unobtrusive that it’s easy to forget how you happen to be watching the film at all, captures this strange and unsettling mix of naivety and weariness that modern, urban children seem to have.

The refreshing simplicity of style enlivens the entire film. The camera just shows what is happening and the edits move the film from one place to another. Of course some choices had to be made, the most difficult, no doubt, being what to leave out. The pace of the film is also superbly judged. It is clear, though, that the seductive grace of the subject and the infectious gusto of the children imbue the events with their own irresistible, natural charm. The children take to dancing, some reforming wayward characters, some developing crushes and others clearly just having a great time. Even the kids who have to sit it out—this kind of dancing being averse to their particular religions—seem invigorated by the surreal appearance of this arcane, upper-class sport in their downtrodden elementary.

There have been comparisons to Jeffrey Blitz’s Spellbound that are obvious enough. However, that film was a curiosity, far less engaging as a narrative. Spellbound asked you to view from a distance, Mad Hot Ballroom dares you to get up-close. Perhaps it is the physical nature of the competition that proves more winning. The mental agility of spelling contests lean toward a certain intellectual exclusivity. Dancing seems naturally more inclusive—perhaps misleadingly so—however, it is certainly more alluring to watch and visually more engaging to see it take shape.


A certain sadness is always shuffling in the background. The teachers have a clear anxiety about issues of success and failure. The lives of these working-class children do not seem to have any middle-ground in store. As is common, it will be success for a few and a hard life for the many. The teachers are so desperate for them to break this cycle, to experience success in some form (all the while raising the stakes for failure), that a few cracks appear through the artificial ballroom grin. The great football star of the 80’s, Diego Maradona (himself desperately poor as a child) once said that every day he used to lose except on the field of play where he was at first equal and then superior. Talent is a great leveller. Perhaps this is part of the peculiarly American obsession with adolescent sport, that children are exposed to the rules of life in microcosm, of having to succeed through merit. The kids display what Sherwood Anderson called ‘the great American desire to get up in the world,’ a will to succeed against the odds.

The teachers here are a brave, dedicated bunch—they expect their children to win, and they will it with their heart and soul. Of course, there are losers, but thankfully the younger group of children who do not make it through take it on the chin and seem inspired by the experience. It is heartbreaking to see them cry and pleasantly surprising to see them so reasonable in defeat, accepting that they could have performed a little better. Of all the younger kids, the Bob Dylan lookalike is the most curious and endearing, bold enough to ask to see the judges scorecards before accepting 3rd place. So the kids dance, wavering recklessly along the thin line between success and failure—and we feel it, not them—because we fear it may mean much more than they realise.

The film, so effortlessly engaging, destroys any serious attempts at critical analysis. Something so enjoyable should be left alone to roam free. It succeeds on its own terms, working perfectly on its own level. The pinnacle is supremely timed, like all great sports movies, for the final competition. The tension is high and it is a natural tension of rivalry and personal determination that has built into frenzy. For a moment, the relationship between sport and narrative becomes clear, intersecting each other from invisible parallels. The Dominican kids dance like they were born to win, with no anxiety, maybe aware that because it means everything, they can’t lose. The story of Wilson, in particular, is inspiring: new to the country, unable to speak English, he improvises swaggering flourishes to his dance that send the judges wild. And the moment is just right: they have worked hard and they win, things are as they are supposed to be and the universe is in great order.