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Showing posts with label Alastair Macaulay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Alastair Macaulay. Show all posts

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Why I no longer consider myself a dance sniffer

...er, I mean, dance critic.

The following is my response to Joseph Carman's Dance Magazine article, "Why Do They Say What They Say?" (see here)
Dancers tend to overlook the fact that a critic’s first commitment is to the readers. – Joseph Carman
Well, actually, who are the readers? By and large, when it comes to dance criticism, in New York City at least, the readers are dancers. Everybody else is reading criticism about pretty much anything other than dance. Doubt me? Just ask around.
“The critic has the obligation to report on the imaginativeness of this art and the measure of truth and beauty that is there,” says Joan Acocella, who writes for The New Yorker. “That goal, which I think is the overriding goal, can conflict with the virtue of kindness.”
Dance artists aren’t asking for kindness–to be handled with kid gloves and patted on the head by someone whose real job is the official designation of what’s true and beautiful. It’s condescending to treat dancers as if they are delicate children cringing from the threat of abuse. Dance artists are looking for fairness, not kindness.
“I’m not emotionally involved with your career.” -- Allan Ulrich
Again, I don’t think dance artists are asking for emotional involvement with their careers. They have family, friends, lovers and perhaps students and fans for that degree of engagement. There’s alienation and unwarranted hostility in this statement.
Alastair Macaulay, the chief dance critic for The New York Times, says that in his fledgling years as a dance critic in London, he was what he terms “an angry young critic.” Currently, he feels that he would lose more sleep over reviews that overpraise than those that go negative. He also cautions dancers about obsessing over criticism. “Generally I follow the rule that performers are ill-advised to read about themselves,” says Macaulay....”“They read reviews at their own peril.”
Sleep well. But while you’re awake and able to think about it, consider this: Dancers, just like all adult professionals, have every right to read what’s written about them, if they so choose. It’s not so much that their paper-thin egos are chafing but that they know that nasty reviews–and especially ones published in the New York Times, for god's sake–have potential influence over arts presenters and funders, as well as potential audiences. Hell, I’d monitor every word that was written about me in your paper if I thought it might lose me opportunities and funding, especially in today’s climate. Corporations keep track of what's written and said about them in the media. Why should dance professionals be any less concerned?
But Macaulay claims that he doesn’t place body slamming high on his list of critical talking points. “I learned from Lynn Seymour,” he says, “that a great dancer can transcend what is not considered the ideal body type.”
How generous.
One point on which dance writers disagree is the boundary between the critic and the performers. “Choreographers and dancers don’t understand that critics are not part of the dance community,” says Ulrich.
Oh, no? Increasingly, critics–or, at least, people interested in writing about dance–are indeed part of the dance community. Who do you think gives a damn enough to commit to this work with its still-inadequate opportunities, compensation and recognition? Who do you think applies whenever courses in dance writing are offered?

Dancers themselves are showing interest in documenting their art and addressing its issues in relevant, meaningful and innovative ways. Engagement and advocacy do not preclude intelligent discernment and, frankly, it is disrespectful to imply that they do.

If the role of Dance Critic, as defined by most of the mainstream writers interviewed for Carman's article, requires a kind of elevation and walling off of the writer from the written about, I no longer recognize it as anything that defines me or has meaning for me.

Friday, September 23, 2011

The guys who gave you your bad review

Critic and former dancer Joseph Carman takes up the issue of negative dance criticism--and how critics choose or or do not choose to relate to the artists they write about--with several mainstream dance critics in this article for Dance Magazine. Click here.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Health taskforce responds to Times critic

Dance/USA Taskforce on Dancer Health Responds to New York Times Critic
by Adrienne Westwood, Dance/NYC, December 17, 2010

Monday, December 13, 2010

City Ballet's Jenifer Ringer speaks out

City Ballet Dancer Responds to Times Critic
by The New York Times, December 13, 2010


Thursday, December 2, 2010

Jennifer Edwards on the Sugar Plum controversy

Jennifer Edwards: Nutcracker: Alastair Macaulay, Senior Dance Critic for the New York Times
by Jennifer Edwards, The Huffington Post, December 2, 2010

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Does this tutu make me look fat???

Dance Critic Thinks Ballerina Is Too Fat
by Margaret Hartmann, Jezebel.com, November 29, 2010

And don't miss Working Mother's profile of ballerina Jenifer Ringer here.

UPDATE: Downtown Dancer blogger Rachel Feinerman takes Macaulay to task over his Ringer comment. Read it here.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Andy Horwitz breaks it down

When it comes to the controversial Ann Liv Young, Culturebot's Andy Horwitz doubts there's any there there. Read on...!

The Silly Consensus
by Andy Horwitz, Culturebot, September 8, 2010

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Williams and a touch of Eire

Detail of Irish Hunger Memorial, Battery Park City 
(c)2010, Eva Yaa Asantewaa

Everyone knows that when you follow a faerie or other ethereal denizen of the Nether World into its otherworldly space, you risk never coming back. Everyone knows that, right? You've all read the old tales, heard the legends? So why follow one of these creatures into the decidely un-Manhattan terrain of the Irish Hunger Memorial at Battery Park City--and under a blazing hot sun to boot? Yet batches of people have been willing to do precisely that for choreographer Christopher Williams all this week and will do so again today at 12:30pm.





















The Voyage of Garbhglas
(excerpt)
by Christopher Williams
all photos (c)2010, Eva Yaa Asantewaa


And now I will risk shocking you all by saying that, in this instance, I strongly agree with Times man Alastair Macaulay, who wrote: "You want Mr. Williams's work to be wonderful because it's so wacky."

Maybe something more than that, Alastair. I'd like Williams's work to be more effective because I like the course of his searching and talented mind, and I'm tickled by his idiosyncratic, determinedly retro trend in all things theatrical. He's a different kind of fellow. But I'll agree that the results, in terms of choreography and storytelling, can leave me unsatisfied.

Sydney Skybetter in The Voyage of Garbhglas

Sopranos Amanda Gregory and Amanda Kelly
all photos (c)2010, Eva Yaa Asantewaa

Detail from Irish Hunger Memorial inner wall

There's also the issue of the memorial's inner wall... 
Walking through that tunnel is not exactly an experience of wackiness. The memorial is a wondrous site--a collaboration by artist Brian Tolle, landscape architect Gail Wittwer-Laird and 1110 Architect--and is genuinely made up of stone, soil and vegetation from The Old Sod. Williams's production utilizes this for visual effect but feels not just flimsy as art but also disconnected from the larger meaning of the memorial itself.

The Voyage of Garbhlas (excerpt)
Today at 12:30pm -- free
Irish Hunger Memorial
Vesey Street and North End Avenue, Battery Park City, Manhattan

Sunday, January 31, 2010

Charles Isherwood: Feeling Not So Good

Soon after I completed my now rather famous post on Alastair Macaulay, I sensed that a "Part Two" might be waiting in the wings--something about the welcome demise of the Great Man Theory and Practice of Criticism in this age of new media. However, writing that follow-up never became a serious project. Over the past two weeks, I've mainly dealt with the aftermath of writing about Macaulay.

To the extent that anything related to contemporary dance in New York can go viral, my calling out of Macaulay has spread all over the physical and virtual dance community. I've received numerous supportive comments on InfiniteBody and Facebook. People have emailed me privately in celebration of the post. They have emailed the link to friends and colleagues and posted it on their own blogs and Facebook pages. Now when I go to dance events, people thank me for having the guts to take on a powerful critic and news outlet.

Grateful for this outpouring of respect and support, I've been reminding everyone to find a way to take action. Be part of the solution. All of that released energy must be channeled into effective community strategies.

Meanwhile, another Times man was gearing up for battle. Theater critic Charles Isherwood suddenly decided that it was time to share his "conflicted reactions" to Bill T. Jones's musical Fela!

Fela! premiered in 2008 Off Broadway at 37 Arts Theater, winning raves from Times critic Ben Brantley, among others. It moved to Broadway last year. But Isherwood has remained silent, all this time, about his misgivings.

Burying the point of his essay--Feeling Unsettled at a Feel-Good Show--way below references to David Mamet's Race and Harry Reid's accurate, if inelegant, remarks about Obama, Isherwood eventually gets around to declaring that he enjoyed Fela! but it left him with "lingering questions about the depiction of the African milieu it evoked." As a white man, though, he'd thought it best to keep these misgivings to himself rather than risk saying that the highly successful production "tilted a little too closely towards minstrelsy."

Next, Isherwood provides a two-sentence definition and (inaccurate) history of the minstrel show in America. He takes pains to remind us that minstrelsy "disseminated ugly racial stereotypes." The paragraph continues, explaining the genesis of Fela! in the remarkable career of the late Fela Anikulapo–Kuti, the outspoken Nigerian singer/musician who created Afrobeat. The show--presented in concert form--is, in the critic's own words, "vibrant, exciting and fabulously performed."

Yes, indeed it is.

But now Isherwood arrives at his problem:

"...there are really no characters, aside from Fela Kuti himself." And though the critic goes on to name two actual characters--Fela's mother and an American woman activist--he clearly does not deem these two women sufficiently built out. Why can't they contribute to what should have been a far more conventionally conceived production? He expects "sustained dialogue" and "clearly defined roles to play." Most of all, he's bothered by all of those "hip-wriggling riffs on African dance."

This delicate concern--which continues to bother Isherwood throughout the piece--wouldn't pass the laugh test with anyone familiar with Fela's exuberant marathon performances. I never had the privilege of seeing the man perform live, although I have seen his son, Femi Kuti, who took up Fela's Afrobeat mantle as well as his role as emperor of the stage, deploying a mighty army of "hip-wriggling" African women. Jones and co-writer Jim Lewis, telling Fela's story, have merely faithfully recreated what Fela himself created.

On a roll, and warming to his once intimidating subject, Isherwood complains that the women are "largely festive window dressing." They are "attired in eye-catching, vibrantly colored, flesh-baring ensembles." They "strut around the stage and the theater looking exotic, imperious and sexy. So too do the male members of the ensemble, who also bare a lot of flesh but have little to do other than sing and dance."

"Hence my discomfort," he continues, now sternly instructing anyone unfamiliar with the festishization of the Black body.

"The presentation of African culture as a feast of exotic pageantry has the potential, at least, to reinforce stereotypes of African people as primitive and unsophisticated, albeit endowed with astounding aptitudes for song and dance." Later he writes that "the way the dancers weave in and out of the audience repeatedly seems ingratiating, a sort of seduction that almost sexualizes the performers."

These oddly forced objections lead me to suspect that primitive, exotic lack of sophistication lies in the eye of the critical beholder. How dare these dancers, bringing their “astounding” and “frolicking” bodies so close, ignore the sacred fourth wall--the protective barrier that, Isherwood says, gives the audience "some intellectual perspective."

It seems to me that not only has Isherwood had little or no exposure to the Fela aesthetic, he's been sheltered from much traditional African culture, which is gloriously colorful and undeniably sensual--although not necessarily sexual in intent--without the Western Christian overlay of judgment and shame. And--given his call for "individual moments" and "individual voices"--he not only ignores what Fela's shows were like but he also misses the point that traditional African cultures privilege inclusive, communal participation over isolated, spotlit expressiveness. Perhaps an annual trip to Brooklyn's far less stressful Dance Africa fest might eventually ease this critic out of his discomfort.

I'm not certain who "might not pick up on the fact" that these women represent Fela's wives--Isherwood's next worry. Would it be someone who knows nothing about Fela's life and, perhaps, failed to peruse the play's biographical material?

Isherwood is so sure that he'd feel on safer ground around all of this Black sensuality if Fela!'s sociopolitical narrative was spelled out in big, neon letters that he overlooks the fact that the man's defiant politics and grievous experiences are right there--in Fela's songs and in the play's unfolding. Isherwood needs to stop fretting about how close certain wrigglng hips are getting to him and pay better attention. Jones and Lewis have brought in as much stark material as popular theater will allow in what is, after all, a concert musical. The balance works.

Fela! is not telling the stories that Lynn Nottage told in Ruined or Danai Gurira told in Eclipsed which, Isherwood says, "explore the hard experience of African women by depicting fully developed lives caught in trying, sometimes terrible circumstances." But wait, why don't we take a count of all the Hollywood, Broadway and television stories about white women that skip over harsh reality in favor of romance or sex or lightweight comedy?

In its final three paragraphs, Isherwood's essay runs off the rails. First, he wonders if he'd feel any discomfort if he were "attending an African dance recital at Dance Theater Workshop." African dance at Dance Theater Workshop? I might not feel discomfort, but I'd feel amazement. African dance--let alone something labeled a "recital"--is not exactly DTW fare. It sounds as if he attends “downtown” dance as often as Macaulay does.

He next beats up on the Broadway production for being surrounded by $20 programs and T-shirts. (Hello! It's Broadway!) He takes exception to the decor--"the theater is bedecked in vibrantly colored panels of corrugated metal and African gewgaws"--which seems aimed at recreating, as best as would be possible, the feeling of The Shrine, Fela's nightclub. Should it look, instead, like a straight-up Broadway theater?

At this point, Isherwood gazes around--metaphorically speaking--and realizes the audience is "largely white, middle aged and middle class." (Hello! It's Broadway!) What must they be thinking? "Many will have had little exposure to African culture and some may come away with the impression that partying played a larger role in the lives of the people surrounding Fela than the grim political battles and the economic hardship...."

Leaving aside the strong possibility that Isherwood is projecting--well, let's not leave that too far to the side--let's give some credit to the audience for intelligence and the possibility that they might be able to detect a measure of complexity in the show or might actually have read the program notes.

Finally, Isherwood ends his critique with a curious "to be sure" paragraph that contradicts everything he has tried to establish in his previous argument and concludes with him throwing up his hands and basically urging people to go see Fela! and make up their own minds.

Here the critic abruptly acknowledges the inclusion of "grim, harrowing detail," the death of Fela's mother, the "horrific abuse of his wives during a government raid on his compound." He credits the co-writers for doing their best "to include as much pertinent history as the concept for the show can comfortably allow."

"The signal truth of Fela Kuti's life is that his music was the vehicle for his political activism; the two cannot be separated."

Bingo!

I guess the whole thing comes down to all that African hip-wriggling. A little too much and way too close.

Other than that, one has to ask Isherwood that old question, "Was this trip necessary?"#

Friday, January 15, 2010

Summing Up Alastair Macaulay

Alastair Macaulay is a bored man.

The New York Times chief dance critic, an import from London, has been holding down a position of outsized power that he never merited. When he first got here, I thought he'd bring a voice of passion, which I value. But, for the most part, I stopped reading his work when it became clear that his experience and sympathies mainly run to elite choreographers—Balanchine, Cunningham, Paul Taylor, Mark Morris--and a handful of other artists he deems masters of the craft. Ask Macaulay to stray beyond his comfy zone, and he loses it.

As an arts critic and former Bessie Awards committee member, I've seen a ton of dance of all kinds in New York and had been doing so even before I was first published in 1976. When I go to a concert, if I happen to stumble in any direction, I'm going to fall onto a dance critic. When it comes to contemporary “downtown” dance—a stupid term we've learned to live with--I can count, on one hand, and that's being generous, the number of times I've noticed Macaulay in the mix. I see everybody out there, and everybody sees me. If Macaulay were attending and humbly studying up on anything other than major, mainstream events, I'd certainly run into him.

New York dance and performance artists have been incensed about Macaulay for a long time, but he really struck the rock when the Times published his end-of-decade summary, Choreographic Climate Change (aka, A Decade's Worth of Dance, Dancers and Choreographers). I must admit I'm only reading this article now after having been directed to it by the vigilant folks at Movement Research and on Facebook.

We ought to thank Macaulay for producing a document that—like the solemn wisdom of Pat Robertson and the learned policy pronouncements of Sarah Palin—gives us a vivid idea of who he is. He is a very bored man. And boredom comes from not caring enough to look deeply.

For instance, if you are bored, you're likely to fail to notice that “political relevance” can come in numerous forms, some of them not obviously in your face. If you are bored, when you call the 1980s and 1990s decades of decline and loss, you might note the deaths of Tudor and Balanchine, the deaths of MacMillan and Robbins, yet fail to commemorate the toll that HIV/AIDS would come to take on the wider dance community. If you are bored, you might overvalue the souped-up technical proficiency of today's ballet dancers. If you are bored, you might seek out and laud contemporary ballets that are “happy,” that “express joy” and give you an apparently much-needed, if temporary, boost.

But think now, what if that were the criterion for every art? Only happy plays? Happy music? Happy cinema? Surely unthinkable. Then why envision the dancing body as only a source for entertainment, something to be consumed like a drug?

That “age-old belief that dance expresses joy?” That may be true but only a fraction of the story. Look to any traditional dance, and you will find a spectrum of purposes, meanings, moods and challenges to both performer and audience. Even flamenco master Soledad Barrio's work, which Macaulay clearly enjoys and repeatedly writes about, dares to explore the rougher terrain of the soul. So what's he talking about?

Frankly, not much. His article is a scandal of bubble wrap masquerading as critical assessment. There's not much there there. Really, this thing would get extremely poor marks at university.

Senior Dance Critic. New York Times.

So, here's the quote that has everybody steamed:
  • Dance critics like to look for hope in the best modern or postmodern choreography being shown in downtown Manhattan. I’ve seen good material there too and among young modern-dance choreographers elsewhere, and yet — amid a field too large for anyone to keep complete track of it — I sense that too little of late has amounted to anything historic.
“Dance critics?” Well, apparently not Macaulay. He does not look because he rarely attends. And when he does attend, he does not look. At least, not deeply.

Senior Dance Critic. New York Times.

“Downtown Manhattan?” Progressive contemporary dance and performance exist throughout the New York metropolitan area, and a substantial amount of it rewards exploration.

Senior Dance Critic. New York Times.

“I've seen good material...” Ah, the whiff of condescension.

“young modern-dance choreographers” Please. What is this modern-dance? That's a legacy, admirably upheld by some existing companies and choreographers, but there is much, much more to post-balletic dance, and it certainly cannot be summed up by the term “modern-dance.” But Macaulay has neither time nor inclination to identify what he's talking about. Instead, why don't we hurry on to safer territory—African dance!--because, you know, African dance is, itself, just one thing.

He calls contemporary dance “a field too large for anyone to keep complete track of it.”

There it is: “Why, you don't expect me to actually attempt to catch up and learn something about this field, do you? I simply don't have time!”

Senior Dance Critic. New York Times.

And those sketchy allusions to African, Indian, flamenco, tap? Please. These art forms and their artists deserve more attention and specificity, even in an article of this nature and slapdash-ery. And speaking of slapdash-ery and outright slapping:


You can afford to be left cold by its most famous current leader, Savion Glover and still find a wealth of excitement in the performances of several other stars well under 40.

Oh, poor Savion. You're the one tap guy Macaulay bothers to identify, and he rises up and uses this moment of power to slam you. How very useful to the field of tap dance.

Senior Dance Critic. New York Times.

Dance is the art with no history.

Come again?

Senior Dance Critic. New York Times.

He continues:

When a step has happened, it leaves no trace.

You know, that's only true if you're bored, and the traces of that dance cannot penetrate your hard head and harder heart.

Senior Dance Critic. New York Times.

I make no predictions of where dance is going or how posterity will judge the decade’s choreography. But it closes with many of us feeling greater delight in the field, and hope renewed.

Well, you could knock me over with a feather boa!

“It closes with many of us”--excuse, me, who's that us?--”feeling greater delight in the field, and hope renewed.”

That's what you call tying a neat bow around an empty package.

Aside from all the aforementioned happy dancing, I can't locate the rationale for Macaulay's “greater delight” nor for his “hope renewed,” and I certainly doubt it has anything to do with the kinds of artists of all kinds who give me hope on a daily basis in this crazy world.

Let me say it plain, because I have little to lose:

The New York Times does not care about dance. If it did, it would give dance a senior critic with diligence, breadth of knowledge, curiosity, serious chops and respect for artists.


Monday, July 27, 2009

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Two more takes on Merce

Grand Old Master
by Tobi Tobias, Seeing Things, ArtsJournal.com, April 17, 2009

Merce Cunningham, Turning 90: Meanings Still Pour From Movement
by Alastair Macaulay, The New York Times, April 17, 2009

Two prominent dance critics weigh in on Nearly Ninety, which runs through tomorrow afternoon at BAM. And what did your humble blogger friend think of the piece? You'll have to wait for the Dance Magazine (or DanceMagazine.com) review to find out!

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Lemi Ponifasio: a ritual of respect and sorrow

I am thankful for the gift of dance. It is a miraculous spirit that activates our kinship with the world, the living, the dead, the river, stone, sky, and all sentient beings.

--Lemi Ponifasio, "Note from the Artist," program notes for Requiem

Presented in Lincoln Center's Mostly Mozart Festival 2008, Lemi Ponifasio's Requiem--inspired by Mozart's Requiem but infused, instead, with movement and music, chant and natural sound invoking the South Pacific--was a work of curiously subconscious effect.

Ponifasio's New Zealand-based company MAU boasts a cast of 24 Pacific Islanders of diverse backgrounds. The full-evening production unfolded like a sacred ceremony with processions, gestures, offerings and blood sacrifice in acknowledgment of the impending loss of a land, a way of life, the precious history of a people. To put it plainly, global warming, unchecked, will ultimately drown the islands of the nation of Kiribati (home to several of the performers). Ponifasio, born in a Samoan village, set this work before an affluent American audience--the audience for Lincoln Center and Mostly Mozart--people who benefit from the advances of a nation whose carbon footprint on this planet is comparable to Sasquatch's furry foot.

Much of Requiem, in its specifics, remains unknown to me, at least on a conscious level, and I believe that was a deliberate strategy. This strategy includes Helen Todd's dim lighting, suggestive of secrecy and disappearance; the chant (rendered in English only in the program notes), suggestive of traditions and holy secrets to which we might feel we bear only remote connection; the uncommon slowness of pace which effectively moves us out of our typical, technologically-enhanced relationship to time and to thought as Westerners and as sophisticated consumers of art.

Ponifasio addresses the tenderness within us rather than our defended ego selves. The risk taken: that those among us who identify most strongly with those ego selves would not get it, would resist it. Was the risk worth it? In his New York Times review, chief dance critic Alastair Macaulay reports his observation of "the surreptitious, apologetic exits of one member of the audience after another." I have sat among audiences where the fleeing of unhappy patrons--one by one or in clumps--was quite noticeable. But perhaps I was too rivetted by what was happening onstage to notice any "apologetic exits" or they were indeed sufficiently "surreptitious."

Yes, the slowness of Requiem challenged me, but it also made all the sense in the world, in time with the gradual disappearance of Kiribati. And it whispered to and opened up another part of my head.

Let us mourn together. Let us exchange our sorrows. (Lemi Ponifasio)

Ponifasio--in his writing and his interviews--is engaging, and his purpose, as I grasp it, is crystal clear. I encourage you to take a look at this feature by Valerie Gladstone in The New York Sun--'Requiem' for a 'Requiem'--and to get a copy of the production's Playbill, if you can.

Saturday, June 7, 2008

Need a second opinion?

I haven't seen the new Twyla Tharp piece for American Ballet Theater, but I've certainly heard the earth-rumbling grumbles over the Macaulay review. For a more moderate approach to the same problems, try Tobi Tobias.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Scherr upgrades Macaulay report card

In Macaulay Watch, dance blogger (Foot in Mouth) and journalist (Newsday) Apollinaire Scherr considers the Times's top guy's on-the-job training and manages to upgrade his marks. Lately, though, I think the Times should be doing a better job all around. With its overall rollout of dance writing that ranges from lethargic to vitriolic, does anyone really think the Times is giving the dance capital of America the coverage it needs and deserves?

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