The Glitter, the Gossip, and the Guilty Pleasure: Why Strictly Come Dancing Still Works

On paper, Strictly Come Dancing should feel exhausted. After twenty-plus series, hundreds of spray-tanned celebrities, and enough fake tan to re-coat the Forth Bridge, the BBC’s flagship Saturday night entertainment should by rights be limping around the dance floor like a week-ten tango. Instead, last weekend’s launch show pulled in its highest overnight ratings in five years, and my usually cynical group chat spent Sunday morning dissecting Angela Scanlon’s cha-cha like football fans replaying a last-minute winner. Something about this sequined circus refuses to fade.
The formula hasn’t changed: a ballroom, a band, four judges, and a parade of the famous, the infamous, and the “haven’t you been on telly?” clutching at professional partners in the hope of redemption, reinvention, or at least a nice holiday. Yet each autumn the same ritual hooks millions. The secret is not in the steps but in the storytelling.
Producers have learned to let narrative breathe. This year’s pairing of Bobby Brazier with Dianne Buswell immediately frames him not just as EastEnders’ newest heart-throb but as a son grieving his mother, Jade Goody. The camera lingers on the way Dianne’s hand finds the small of his back when he falters. One lift during rehearsals and social media floods with clips and tears. No scriptwriter could manufacture that tenderness.
Meanwhile, Nigel Harman—soap bad boy turned silver fox—plays the self-aware veteran, joking about creaking knees while secretly drilling jive kicks in the corridor. The show winks at its own clichés even as it indulges them. We know the arc: early struggle, mid-series breakthrough, possible dark-horse triumph. The pleasure is watching the cast discover the arc in real time.
Of course, the judges still deliver their pantomime. Craig Revel Horwood hisses like a deflating tyre; Motsi Mabuse leaps up, arms windmilling joy. The scoring paddles are almost beside the point. What matters is the micro-drama: Shirley Ballas pausing for an extra beat before awarding a ten, the tiny gasp from the celeb on the balcony, the ripple of tension that travels around the circle of sequinned contestants clutching each other’s hands. These moments feel spontaneous because, unlike most reality TV, Strictly is broadcast live. A mis-timed lift or a band fluff is preserved forever, unfiltered, human.
The production itself is a masterclass in controlled excess. Every light cue, every camera swoop has been rehearsed to the millimetre, yet the velvet-and-rhinestone aesthetic never slips into gaudy parody. Costumes have become more daring—see Layton Williams’ asymmetrical mesh top that seemed held together by optimism—but the palette still respects ballroom tradition: rich burgundies, midnight blues, the obligatory explosion of gold for the finale. The result feels like a dream you might have after falling asleep in a vintage jewellery box.
Musical choices walk the same tightrope between nostalgia and novelty. A Viennese waltz to a slowed-down Billie Eilish track sounds like sacrilege until the strings swell and the couple glides, and suddenly TikTok teenagers are asking what a Viennese waltz is. The band, led by Dave Arch, has become expert at these reinventions; they can swing from Metallica to Motown without breaking the four-four heartbeat that keeps older viewers nodding along.
The weakest element this year is the same one that niggles every series: the Sunday night dance-off. The concept is fair—two bottom couples perform again for the judges—but the energy sags after the Saturday spectacle. By the time the credits roll, the studio feels like a nightclub after last orders. Yet even here Strictly has learned to mine tension. The camera cuts to family members in the audience twisting programmes into nervous origami, or to pros mouthing counts under their breath like coaches at a penalty shoot-out.
Some viewers complain the show has become too slick, too self-aware. They miss the days when John Sergeant dragged his partner across the floor like a shopping trolley and chaos felt possible. But slickness is not the same as soullessness. The stakes are different now—contestants arrive having watched a decade of clips, aware that a single meme-friendly routine can relaunch a career—but the nerves are still real. You can’t fake the tremor in Amanda Abbington’s hand as she waits for scores after an Argentine tango that laid bare every recent divorce headline.
The real triumph of Strictly is that it understands spectacle is not enough. Week by week it persuades celebrities to risk looking foolish, and then rewards them for vulnerability rather than perfection. That is why, every December, viewers who would never book a ballroom class find themselves weeping at a rumba performed by a former rugby player they previously only knew for a red-carded tackle in 2012. The show sells us a fantasy—transformation through sequins and effort—but it sneaks in something truer: that being seen trying is more moving than flawless execution.
Next weekend the competition proper begins. Someone will over-rotate a turn; someone else will discover an unexpected knack for the samba. The tabloids will allege a “curse”, and a minor royal will be spotted in the audience. None of it is new, yet millions will tune in because, beneath the feathers and fake tan, Strictly still offers a rare weekly appointment with shared joy. In an age of on-demand isolation, the idea that we all gasp, laugh, and vote together feels almost radical. That’s the real lift the show nails every time.