"When you're different," Kurt explains, "when you're special, sometimes you have to get used to being alone." "How can you do a duet by yourself?" Santana deliciously condescends. "That's, like, vocal masturbation, or something." Various of the children titter over Santana's saucy deployment of the M-word, but Kurt rises above it all to declare, "I will be doing a number from the seminal classic movie Victor/Victoria" -- a film, he claims, that's about "embracing both the male and the female sides," and I'd argue strenuously with that assertion, I'm sure, but as debating the funny little people in the television set almost always leads to bitter tears and angry recriminations, I'll let that one slide in favor of watching as Kurt tells Tinkles, "Hit it!"
We slip immediately into what I have to believe is a fantasy performance sequence, what with the elaborate costumes, orchestrations, sets, and choreography on display, though you should know the show muddies that interpretation considerably by having the kids cheer Kurt from the auditorium's seats at the end of it all. But I'm getting ahead of myself, I suppose. The song Kurt's chosen is "Le Jazz Hot" and I'll say it right now: Dame Julie Andrews has nothing to worry about. At all. Like she cares, I'm sure, but still.
If it weren't for that impending bit of twee nonsense from Quinn and Sam later on in the episode, I'd call this the worst number of the evening, despite all of the obvious effort that went into its production, and despite the fact that Chris Colfer acquits himself admirably on that almost impossible glissando at the end. And the backup dancers look terrific as well, with all of them -- men and women -- rocking their top hats and white ties and tails, but Kurt's in this bizarrely bifurcated half-black/half-white half-heartedly glittery tuxedo, and there's all of this unnecessary fringe dripping down the white sleeve of the thing that doesn't make any sense at all, and Colfer's voice is obviously and annoyingly overproduced at points, and there's this gross little pointless half-mustache on his upper lip, and the low-rent drag queen who did his girl-side eye makeup should be slapped in her teeth, and feh. I miss Lesley Ann Warren, I guess is what I'm trying to say. She was robbed at that year's Academy Awards. Robbed!