An Interview, 28 November 1988
[In
the fall of 1988, I took a Performance Studies class at New York University
called Writing About Performance, taught by Marcia B. Siegel, herself a writer
and dance critic. As readers of Rick
On Theater will have gathered, I’m not
very knowledgeable about dance, but I used to read Marcia’s reviews
occasionally and I was always impressed by her clarity and directness.
[Marcia
writes non-judgmental reviews using
descriptive detail and specific language and images, developing her
interpretation with evidence and illustration and attempting to describe her
experience without judging it for others.
She acknowledges her personal biases from a first-person, non-universal
perspective and, rather than try to cover the entire performance, she focuses
on a thematic point. Marcia often
includes descriptions of the venues for the performance she reviews as well as
other non-performative elements, giving an impression of the whole performance
experience, not just the dance alone.
These were the principal reasons I took her class and they are also
elements of review-writing that I try to emulate.
[As
a class exercise in writing on performance, Marcia invited Joan Ross Acocella
(b. 1945), a journalist and writer on
dance, literature, and psychology, to sit for an interview which we all wrote
up individually. Acocella’d written for The
Village Voice, served as senior critic
and review editor for Dance Magazine,
and was the New York dance critic for the Financial Times.
[She’s
been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 1995, serving as the magazine’s dance critic from 1998 to
2019. Acocella’s books include Mark Morris (1993), a biographical/critical study of the choreographer; Willa Cather and the Politics of
Criticism (2000); and Creating
Hysteria: Women and Multiple Personality Disorder (1999). She co-edited André
Levinson on Dance: Writings from Paris in the Twenties (1991) and edited The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky (1999), the first unexpurgated version in
English. Her most recent book is Twenty-eight
Artists and Two Saints (2007), a
collection of essays.
[Acocella’s
written about the arts for The New York Review of Books, the Times Book Review, Art in America, and the Times Literary Supplement. She’s been granted fellowships
from the Guggenheim Foundation, the American Academy in Berlin, the New York
Institute for the Humanities, and the Cullman Center of the New York Public
Library. She’s received awards from the
American Academy of Arts and Letters, the New York Book Critics Circle, the
Congress on Research in Dance, and the American Psychoanalytic
Association. The writer is currently at
work on a biography of Mikhail Baryshnikov.]
Speaking of the recent Joffrey Ballet revival
of George Balanchine’s Cotillon
[débuted on Wednesday, 25 October 1988], Joan Acocella insists, “I can’t
think about that work without thinking of . . . the
mood of Europe in the ’twenties and early ’thirties. I can’t think about our response to it—our
wish to have it—without thinking about nostalgia for the ’twenties . .
. .“ This
is early in her 2 November [1988] interview, principally conducted by Matthew
Brookoff [a dance teacher and choreographer who was an MA student in the class],
in the Performance Studies Studio, 721 Broadway in the East Village, but she
alludes to the “marriage” of criticism and history several times throughout the
session.
Acocella, dance critic for the magazine 7
Days, has an academic background in English and comparative literature and
was headed for a university teaching post in those fields when she was waylaid by the need for some ready cash and diverted into her present
career as dance critic and writer. In
the ensuing years, Acocella has become a font of history about the dance world
and its people. Although acknowledging
that critical thinking and historical knowledge, both of the work’s times and
the creator’s life, “certainly needn’t be married,” she takes “tremendous
pleasure” in having them “work side by side.”
“I can’t write criticism without thinking this sort of thing,” Acocella
explains.
Though
Acocella “strongly believes” that her “business lies with what happens on
stage,” not behind the scenes or in the administrative offices, drawing the
line seems to be difficult at times. Whereas Acocella is steeped in
knowledge of Balanchine’s life and works, she considers stories about what’s
happening at the American Ballet Theatre or in Artistic Director Peter
Martins’s life mere gossip. She wasn’t
able clearly to distinguish between the two: “An artist’s biography—I guess the
difference is that it’s dignified by time .
. . .“ Knowledge is a good thing,
but its injudicious use may be seen as “playing politics,” which can destroy
the critics claim to independence.
There may
be an argument for knowing as much as possible about all aspects of the art a
critic covers, though obviously everything must be checked with various sources
before it’s printed. What strikes me, however, is
Acocella’s insistence on any background knowledge at all. So many critics, in theater, though perhaps
less so in dance and music, adamantly maintain an ignorance of where a work
comes from, its production history, and the past work of the company. A work
isn’t created or performed in a vacuum; the influences that shaped it are often
as illuminating as the dialogue, dance steps, or musical notes performed on
stage. But the critic has to know the
background in order for it to illuminate the work.
As
Acocella remarked, “Once you’ve seen [Merce] Cunningham for umpty-ump years, if
you went in and saw them in tutus, you would be very surprised.” Though knowing why a play, dance, or composition
is the way it is may not—nor should not—make it seem better or worse, it might
help the critic understand what the artists were up to and why it did or didn’t
work. Is it really fair to judge a work
without knowing its history? Acocella
clearly says no: “I always think that way.”
So, perhaps, should the rest of us.
* * * *
[I thought it would be interesting to see
one of Joan Acocella’s New Yorker reviews,
particularly one on a subject from pop culture rather than the classical dance
world. Hence, this review of the popular
ABC TV show “Dancing with the Stars” (2005-present), which got some comment in
other periodicals such as New York
magazine.]
Dancing
Mambo!
“Dancing with the Stars.”
By Joan Acocella
April 7, 2008
“Dancing with the Stars”
is back, for its sixth season. The women have dusted off their sequinned bras,
the men have reassumed their matador poses, and the whole big diamanté cheese
ball is rolling down the highway again, into your living room. Professional
ballroom dancing is an oddity, because for the most part it is done not in
theatres but at competitions. Therefore, every millisecond of phrasing, every
chin tilt and fanny wag, has been decided upon beforehand and rehearsed for
days on end. The resulting artificiality is compounded by ballroom’s
unashamedly retro character. What do we know, today, of ballrooms? Is there one
in your neighborhood?
Nevertheless, many people
adore ballroom dancing—“Dancing with the Stars” has more than twenty million
viewers—and its passé-ness is probably part of its appeal. The form grew up in
England during the First World War, a time, we know, when old manners were
being discarded, to the grief of many. Ballroom, however weirdly, restored the
lost treasures—romance, glamour, a world of ladies and gentlemen. The U.K.,
forever after, has been the capital of ballroom. In 1949, the BBC launched a
show, “Come Dancing,” which lasted for almost fifty years, and when it was
finally cancelled, there must have been protests, because a few years later the
BBC came up with “Strictly Come Dancing,” which is still running. “Dancing with
the Stars” is the American edition of that program.
But “Dancing with the Stars,”
like “Strictly Come Dancing,” is different from the standard ballroom contest.
Only half the competitors are real dancers. Their partners are celebrities,
usually from sports or entertainment. This gives the television audience the
pleasure of looking at stars—and more. The stars are seen under duress,
competing in a realm where they have no skill. They have to sweat through
rehearsals, then go out on live TV and do what they can, then stand in front of
a panel of judges to be told what is wrong with them, and then get thrown out
or not. In other words, “Dancing with the Stars” is a reality show, with all
the sadism and sentimentality endemic to the genre.
The new season kicked off
last month with twelve stars: the comedian and magician Penn Jillette; the
tennis champion Monica Seles; the rhythm-and-blues singer Mario; Jason Taylor,
the Miami Dolphins’ defensive end; Kristi Yamaguchi, the gold-medal figure
skater; Priscilla Presley, who appeared in the “Naked Gun” films (but who, as
she herself pointed out, is best known for having been the wife of Elvis); and
various other actors—Marissa Jaret Winokur, Shannon Elizabeth, Steve
Guttenberg, Marlee Matlin, Adam Carolla, and Cristián de la Fuente. If you
don’t recognize some of these names, don’t feel bad. Most of the people who
appear on “Dancing with the Stars” are not currently big stars. They are
medium-level stars, or older stars. Roger Federer doesn’t have time to go on
the show; Monica Seles does.
What can you learn from
“Dancing with the Stars”? First, the difference between a dancer and a
non-dancer. The people who partner the stars on the show are not just professional
ballroom dancers; in their field they are bigger stars than their partners are
in their fields. I don’t know why they’re up there, dragging those klutzes
around—the pay must be good—but when you watch them dancing with
non-professionals you will see what makes a person a dancer. Contrary to
widespread belief, the main difference is not in the feet but in the upper
body—the neck, the shoulders, the arms, which are stiff in the amateur and
relaxed and eloquent in the professional. The other giveaway is in “line.” You
may think you don’t know what that is, but, as with consonance in music, you do
know. It is the carriage of the body in a way that seems harmonious and
natural, as opposed to awkward and forced. Poor Monica Seles, with every step
she took, ended in a position that no human being has ever willingly assumed.
She was eliminated in the first round.
The other matter you can
learn about from “Dancing with the Stars” is sex roles. The program makes a
point of challenging sexual stereotypes. This season, a couple of the star
women related how, as children, they were not girlie girls—they were
tomboys—and we got footage of Shannon Elizabeth kicking a punching bag.
Meanwhile, the men were being reassured that ballroom dancing would not
endanger their status as heterosexuals. Jason Taylor, in his rehearsal footage,
brought in a tutu that he said his poker buddies gave him when they heard he
was going on the show, but this note of anxiety was introduced only to be
scoffed at. After all, the person in that little pink skirt was the N.F.L.’s
2006 Defensive Player of the Year. Real men do dance, the show is saying.
Nevertheless, “Dancing with
the Stars” believes in gender stereotypes with all its heart. The women are
dressed like Vegas showgirls. (Many of the outfits are little more than bits of
fringe pasted over their secondary sexual characteristics.) Then, there are the
judges’ remarks. Female stars are often congratulated on getting in touch with
their inner “hotness.”
But the old stereotypes, at
least those which apply to the men, are the basis of much that is good about
the show, its portion of fun and sweetness. In our society, men (or the
non-Latin variety) are not expected to be able to dance, and therefore the
male stars are not at all crushed by their incompetence. Many of them blow it
off, and tool around happily until they are eliminated. Penn Jillette, a great,
unarticulated mound of a man, did little more than try to get out of the way of
what his superb partner, Kym Johnson, was doing. When, later, a judge commented
on Jillette’s huge, hopeless feet, he said, “I had them bound for two
weeks—they just didn’t get smaller.” Meanwhile, these men’s partners, the
female professionals assigned to teach them how to dance, are not pained by
their pupils’ bad performances, because what can you do? They’re guys. The same
is true in rehearsal. The male stars and their pro partners kid around
together. (When Adam Carolla’s partner, Julianne Hough, told him to roll up
from his pelvis, he replied, “I’m not sure if dudes have a pelvis.” “Well, do
it from your thingie,” she said.) In the rare case where the man actually can
dance, this is treated as a pleasant surprise. Jason Taylor has turned out to
be a lovely dancer. Yet he, too, remains true to his gender role. On the dance
floor, he looks endearingly baffled, as if he had just discovered that he is
good at shucking oysters, or something else equally unrelated to his pride.
With the female stars, the
situation is the opposite, and, again, entirely consistent with traditional sex
roles. In our world, women are expected to be able to dance.
Therefore, while the male celebrities are making jokes, their female
counterparts are working and worrying. Marissa Jaret Winokur may have won a
Tony Award for her performance in “Hairspray,” but that didn’t prevent her from
sobbing in front of the camera over the lousy score she got for her cha-cha.
The worst situation, however, is that of the male professionals assigned to
partner the nervous women. They don’t just have to teach them the dances; they
have to console them. You see these men, during the judging process, patting
their ladies on the head, the shoulder: “It’s O.K., honey. You did great.”
The gender drama is even
clearer in the show’s human-interest department. “Dancing with the Stars” has a
strong Oprah-esque edge, an obsession with disability and “overcoming.” Last
year, one of the stars was Heather Mills, best known for having been Paul
McCartney’s wife, who has a prosthetic leg. Marlee Matlin, of the current season,
is deaf. “I’m here on ‘Dancing with the Stars’ to prove to people that just
because you’re deaf doesn’t mean you can’t dance,” she announced. Let me say,
since “Dancing with the Stars” will not, that a person who has a prosthetic
leg, or who can’t hear, is no more likely to become a beautiful dancer than a
person with a prosthetic hand is likely to become an accomplished typist.
(Matlin is doing pretty well, though.) To the producers, that is less important
than the melodrama of transcending affliction. When there’s no handicap, they
invent one. Marissa Winokur—with, I am sure, considerable urging from the
producers—has told us three times so far that she is not thin. (Like Matlin,
she says that she’s there to inspire her impairment group: “I’m bringin’ it in
for everyone who’s not a size 2.”) We have also been repeatedly informed that
Priscilla Presley is old—“the most mature woman we’ve ever had,” in the careful
words of the m.c. In fact, by today’s standards Presley isn’t very old—she’s
sixty-two—and she’s a good mover.
The case-history treatment of
the women leaks out beyond the show. Like other popular TV programs, “Dancing
with the Stars” has spawned a large peripheral media culture: message boards,
newspaper articles, YouTube postings. (If you want to see Marie Osmond fainting
during the judging last year, or Heather Mills crashing to the floor during her
samba, go to YouTube.) In the first two weeks of the current season, nothing
was more thoroughly discussed in those venues than Priscilla Presley’s
misadventures in cosmetic surgery. On Beyond Reality, a video blog, one of the
commentators said, “She seems really spacey, you know? Maybe too much Botox. .
. . It’s, like, eating away her brain.” A number of writers reported that an
Argentine doctor injected Presley’s face with industrial silicone, like the
kind used to lubricate auto parts, and that he was sent to prison.
In the end, the show is not
really about dancing; it is about toil and suffering. Each routine is typically
only a minute and a half long. In other words, on an episode with six couples,
only nine minutes are devoted to dancing. The rest of the time is devoted to
the Greek tragedy that, at least for the women, supposedly surrounds the dance
performances: the rehearsals, the judging, the “eliminations.” The last must be
seen to be believed. The couples stand on a raised platform; lights scan them
as if they were a murder scene. Then, one by one, with plenty of interruptions
to prolong the agony—commercials, backstage buzz (Cristián de la Fuente: “Now
the tears are going to start rolling”)—the “saved” couples are announced, and
then, finally, the not-saved, the sacrificed. Last week, when Steve Guttenberg
was eliminated, there was weeping and hugging, as if he were going to an
honorable death. Not everyone accepts the script, though. When Adam Carolla was
told by a judge early in the season that his foxtrot made him look like a
cross between Will Ferrell and John Cleese, he replied, “Both of them could buy
and sell you.” Bravo to him. ♦
