Dance critic Arlene Croce, 90, died on Dec. 16. She wrote for The New Yorker from 1973-98, the last of the days when critics still mattered (remember when every local TV news show had its own movie and theater critic?). I know Croce mostly from her excellent The Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers Book, which included flip-photos at the corners of the pages (I wanted to do that with my Vernon and Irene Castle book, but it was deemed “too expensive”). The NY Times called Croce “the Jane Austen of dance criticism,” but she was more Pauline Kael—opinionated, sometimes spot-on and hilarious, at other times infuriating. Her most notorious moment came when she refused to review Bill T. Jones’ Still/Here, calling it unreviewable “victim art.” She also wrote at length on George Balanchine, Twyla Tharp, Mark Morris, and Merce Cunningham, calling ballet the highest form of dance (me, I’m more of as tap fan, especially after spending my childhood sitting through my sister’s ballet classes).
Related Posts
