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. Read the rest of this post here
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