A middle-aged comedian stuffs his leopard-skin shorts and shoots for the stars.
An hour into the singing and dancing, it’s almost uncomfortable to watch Dingwall hoof it in that suit in this heat, but he presses on. Then somehow, this next take is even better. Dingwall’s signature dancing, an impressive sort of boneless-puppet jig, has more panache, his voice soars higher, his timing impeccable.
“I do better, to be honest, if I prepare. A lot of people that look like they’re ad-libbing aren’t, but they make it seem that way,” he says. “Certain things you need to prepare for.”
Dingwall sways, moonwalks, practically does the hokey-pokey before swishing into a perfectly executed classic top-hat-and-cane outro: jazz hand hoisted high, fingers splayed wide as a turkey tail, he side-steps out of frame, spot-on smile plastered. He’s breathing hard. It was hilarious. A perfect take. The performance of a lifetime. n