Cranky scribe James Wolcott gets positively citric with fellow Conde Nasty Joan Acocella, The New Yorker dance critic, in his blog.
They disagree on, of all things, ballet. Acocella likes Mark Morris‘ “Mozart Dances,” while Wolcott thinks Acocella wrote a “lazy ass column.” Wolcott starts with a quote from Acocella’s review and then goes critical:
“‘How does Morris get his dancers to perform so unaffectedly? I don’t know the answer, and I almost don’t want to know – I want to believe they’re just that way – but here’s something Morris told me when we talked last summer…’ Never mind what Morris told her that tempestuous summer as his hair nestled on his head, it’s embarrassing to have the dance critic of The New Yorker, a position of adult responsibility, fluttering her wrists like a moth and pulling a maidenly ‘I don’t know and I almost don’t want to know,’ let it be magic and moonlight and leprechauns playing hide-and-seek in the mist-woodsman, spare my innocence!
Ouch. Wolcott ends the column with a disclaimer, presumably letting off the hook his employer, Vanity Fair, in which the blog runs.
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