Joan Acocella: Critic, Historian, or Critic-Historian

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. ♦

This article appears in the print edition of the April 14, 2008, issue.