As always, the hype promoting Joaquin Cortes's latest show has centred on the tributes of his high profile admirers, as if talent were a club that can be joined through celebrity endorsement. But even if Emma Thompson has allegedly knelt before Spain's most famous dancer, and even if Bertolucci has dedicated a poem to him, the fact remains that Cortes' performances are made exceptional through ego and packaging rather than through genius.
In Joaquin Cortes Live (a meaningless title for a dance show if ever there was one), the star opts to share the stage with no other dancers. Apart from a couple of musical numbers performed by his raucously amplified band and singers, his presence is as relentlessly and flamboyantly projected as any rock singer's. A series of Armani-designed outfits allow Cortes to spin the traditional flamenco image into bare chested sex god, city slicker and urban Heathcliffe - while violent, smokey lighting sculpts his every pose in moody chiaroscuro. Live video images, relayed via two huge screens ensure that we get close up and intimate with the dancer's hair (long and sweat-drenched), with his gestures (lots of lingering caresses over neck and chest) and with the shameless drama of his trademark sweep through the audience. Cortes always likes to parade down the aisles in order to give a few bold fans the chance to kiss his hand and ogle his naked torso (which by rigorous standards is actually short-waisted and slightly plump).
Most usefully, the video screens give us a very good view of Cortes' feet - and there is no doubt that technically his dancing deserves close scrutiny. Both his stamina and his control are impressive - he can sustain an extended riff of stamping (zapateado) with the power and regularity of a drill, his turns are tight and fast and the combined sensuality and force in his upper body can shape some genuinely resonant poses. Just because his packaging reeks of egotism is no reason to argue with his expertise.
Yet his dancing lacks that defining thrill in flamenco - that revelation of duende - when a performer seems to get sucked into a dark and very inward part of themselves and when their steps seem to be powered by ancient forces. Cortes never reaches a point of intensity where we feel his body is going to explode. The climaxes, such as they are, are achieved through stage craft. Saturday's packed crowd at the Albert Hall, however, could not have cared less, for Cortes still holds a huge public rapt and panting in the palm of his hand.
