Defending Modern Dance

I hate the crap that passes for collegiate journalism, even if it is Ivy League college journalism. Recently, The Dartmouth Independent published an inarticulate article slamming modern dance. Needless to day, my fellow modern dance company members and I, were slightly pissed. However, I collected my wits and sent in a response. Did they publish it? Of course not. And given that I sent it in months ago, I doubt they ever will. But for those of you who actually read my blog, you can enjoy it. Oh, snap. :)

DEFENDING MODERN DANCE: One Shitty Dancer Talks Back

Dear Editor:

As a member of the Dartmouth Dance Ensemble and a lifelong dancer, I feel the need to respond to Udit Banerjea's blatant attack on modern dance. In his article entitled "Dance Dance Revolution," Banerjea states that he considers himself a "lover of the arts." However, he is clearly not a lover of the art of language if the best word he can conjure up to describe modern dance is "shitty." From his tone, it is apparent that he believes no one would even want to disagree with his assessment. Yet his assumption that modern dance sucks is far from universal. In truth, I, along with many other hardworking dancers at Dartmouth College, disagree wholeheartedly.

Although he attempts to base his article on dance "history," it is quite clear from the outset that Banerjea has little more than a very basic understanding about the emergence of modern dance onto the performance arena. Rather than recognizing the mainstream tradition which is actually modern dance, he falls prey to the stereotype held by the general public and which is constantly perpetuated by the media: that modern dance is all about "being trees" or some such nonsense. Although it is true that the beginnings of what is now considered "modern" dance originated as "a rebellion against the rigidity of classical ballet," the true heart of the movement was the concept that dance could be used as a means of embodying emotions rather than just performing physical feats. In this pursuit, modern dance often aims to tell a story by using the body to convey the emotions behind an idea rather than a narrative tale, which is the format of most ballets. Although an abstract method of performance, the concept of using movement to represent emotion is now hardly revolutionary, and is, in fact, considered downright traditional. The more edgy, off the wall, no rules barred, "I am a tree" performances which originate from the Dadaist movement of the early 20th century are a form of "performance art" and are more a product of absurdist theatre than dance. Although often lumped together with modern dance by the media, such non-structured movement ("clawing the air like a cat," as Banerjea observes) has no place in the mainstream dance arena.

To understand true modern dance, one needs to look no farther than New York's Alvin Ailey Dance Theatre. One of the most famous modern dance companies in the world, Ailey certainly does not dabble in what Banerjea describes as "cat-like screeching." Rather, they have used dance to communicate and educate audiences all over the world with all sorts of emotionally gripping concepts, many of which deal with the story of the African American experience in the United States. Two years ago I had the honor of performing with Ailey II, the Dance Theatre's junior company, where we danced a piece inspired by choreographer Troy Powell's experience of seeing eagles in Alaska. Borrowing movement from the animals, he created a dance which embodied the feelings he had during that trip, using movement which allowed him to share those feelings with the audience. Although those watching probably didn't think to themselves, "I get it! It's about eagles!" that was not the point. The message Powell tried to convey was a sense of open space, awe, and wonder - all feelings that the audience could grab onto and plug their own individual experiences into. By doing so, witnessing modern dance is a much deeper and more personal experience than other art forms which dictate to the audience what to think.

This freedom of interpretation through empathy leads me to my other major issue with Banerjea's article: the accusation that modern dance is inaccessible. Banerjea criticized modern dance for being elitist, claiming that it is only enjoyable for an audience who is in the know, so to speak. He argued that "an art form is not at all successful if you have to study it extensively to appreciate it." First of all, this concept is completely false. As I've attempted to explain, "understanding" modern dance does not require any special knowledge or formula. Certainly, as a dancer, I have more of an appreciation for the physical difficulty of the movement I witness than the average spectator; however, that is no more elitist than a violinist noting the deft motions of a soloist's fingers while attending an evening at the orchestra. I certainly have no greater understanding of the motives behind the movement. However, I don'?t need to know. Rather, by just allowing myself to react to what is happening on stage, and allowing myself to experience the emotions for what they are, I've already understood. Also, isn't the concept of "I don't get it so it must be bad"? an excuse made about all forms of art by those who simply find it personally loathsome? I'm sure I could find a steady supply of people who would make the same claims about Shakespearean drama or Italian opera, but I'd be hard pressed to use those opinions as a basis to argue that Elizabethan theatre and classical music are unsuccessful art forms.

Naturally, modern dance isn't for everyone, but neither is opera or ballet. Art is a very personal thing, and it is understandable that some forms speak to some and not to others. However, as a true art lover, although I may not always "get it," I nevertheless have respect for the creative process. I don't always connect with a work of modern museum art, but the person standing next to me will. Who am I to judge which of us is a better connoisseur? Therefore, if Banerjea is going to criticize modern dance, he should at least have something substantial to say against the art rather than a personal lambasting the entire form. Even his weak idea that such a venture could not possibly be successful ("unless the modern dance movement evolves into something easier to appreciate, it will soon become an antiquity") has been disproven by the sheer fact that modern dance IS successful. It has been around for almost a century, and shows no more sign of dissolving into the ether than any other commercial dance form. Clearly, the only one with the problem here is Banerjea. In concluding, I invite him to attend this year's performance by the Dartmouth Dance Ensemble, Dartmouth's only modern dance group, and experience the real modern dance form. Perhaps if he had the opportunity to see the real work our group does, he could discuss actual issues rather than convoluted stereotypes.

Winter a là Montréal

I just got back from a trip to Montréal, Canada; I had never visited our fair neighbors to the North, so when a friend of mine, Emily, decided to throw her 27th birthday bash in Quebec's capitol, I was jumped at the chance to go. We left bright and early on Saturday morning in the midst of a pouring rainstorm. As we took turns inching the car through mountain fog so thick you couldn't see past the hood, we were starting to wonder if the weather had it in for us. The clouds thinned as we approached the boarder about three hours later, and I handed our passports to the stern woman manning the crossing station. This was my first encounter with the odd Qubecian accent - the mix of French and hardcore Canadian is one I don't think I could hope to replicate or even describe properly. Suffice to say, I had to concentrate to understand her, as I spit out answers as to where we from and where we were going, why, who to see, the name of our hotel, how long we'd be staying. When they asked if we had a reservation, I paused for a millisecond, thinking about the crash space on Emily's floor we were planning on inhabiting, before just spouting "yes!" much to the relief of my car-mates. She waved us through, and Bethany and I switched places and headed into Canada.

Now, I had known Quebec was a French-speaking province, but I was completely unprepared for just how foreign, and un-Canadian it was. I had seen pics of my brother's trip to Niagara falls in Ontario, and my grandmother's vacation to Vancouver. Both of those had been more of what I had expected from Canada: a very American-like place, only more friendly, if not always better looking. But Quebec was completely different; I felt like I had when I had landed in London.

First of all, it is not a bilingual place. Despite their French origins, I had assumed that Quebec (or at least Montréal) would also be English speaking, considering that the rest of Canada spoke English and they were so close to the U.S. boarder. As such, I also thought that written signs would be in both French and English, kind of like signs are in Boston's Chinatown. Not so. As soon as we crossed the boarder, all of the road signs were completely in French, and the measures for distances and speed limits in km. It was a good thing both Bethany and I speak French, or we would have been completely lost. It was a fascinating experience to navigate, and I found I remembered and understood a lot more of the language than I had thought.

This European vibe got stronger as we arrived in the city. We managed to find our way in without a problem, but had to ask directions to get to the hotel in Centre-Ville. The city was quite beautiful, although not as nice as anything I had seen overseas. By then it was 3:30 pm, and we still hadn't eaten all day. After checking in at the lovely Plaza Hotel, we took to the city streets in search of some holdover food before we met Emily and the rest of her entourage for dinner at 6. It had begun to snow lightly, which made for a much nicer atmosphere than the rain we had experienced earlier. The architecture was strange; a complex mix of the old, the new, and the ugly. The city was somewhat mishmashed that way, which made for a questionable effect overall.

However, what really made Montréal feel European was the people rather than the place. Everyone spoke French, everywhere. I managed to make it by with my decent conversational French for the most part, but on the occasions when I had to speak English, the people I spoke to struggled with it. No one seemed put off by English, however - they were all quite friendly and helpful - they just clearly had almost no experience speaking it. Also, the style of dress was very fashionable in a continental European way. I'm proud to say I fit in on this front; a few European childhood friends of mine go to school at McGill, so when choosing my clothes for the weekend I asked myself what they would wear.

We ended up at the really cute Café Vienne near our hotel to eat; I was able to recall enough French to order some hot chocolate and a cheese croissant. We settled in at a table by the windows, reading the Quebec newspaper (en français!) and did some people watching. It was a blast just to sit back and allow the exoticness of the place to just waft around me, listening to snippets of foreign yet understandable words drift past, the smell of a cigarette the table over. If there's one thing I really miss about being abroad it's good cafés.

We also explored the city's Metro which was very clean, efficient, and easy to understand despite the lack of English. I had no more trouble navigating it than I do the T, which, considering that I am slightly directionally challenged (despite that I'm a really good navigator - figure that one out) is saying a lot. Definitely much more user-friendly than New York's system or the London Underground. The stations were cool and very futuristic, spouting plasma screen TVs over the tracks with news and weather broadcasts, and also timers showing the passengers how many minutes until the next train arrived. ALL SUBWAYS SHOULD HAVE THESE! It was awesome. We also got a free ride since no one was at the ticket booth when we got on, so we just jumped over the turnstile. When we returned there, the ticket guy was back with a couple of cops, looking through security footage and watching the people who came out. We booked it rather quickly. We may be wanted for freeloading in Canada now.

After our minor adventure, we went back to the hotel to change for the evening's festivities. After primping for a bit, we met up with Emily and the rest of the gang and headed to a trés chic Thai restaurant a few boulevards away. We sat at a long table, covered in oil candles and flowers floating in water. At the head sat a large Buddha statue covered in flowers. I chatted with the people sitting around me, and met a couple of really interesting post-docs as I sipped at my wine. We were starved by that time, and I was determined not to get drunk before I had eaten properly. Finally the waiter came around with our meals, enshrined in blue and white porcelain display dishes and pots. They were eerily similar in appearance to the set my Mom has from England. The food was fantastic despite my hunger; I had gotten chicken roasted in peanut sauce with a side of thin, crispy spinach and white rice. It was the best Thai food I'd ever eaten.

By the time we were done it was only 9-ish, so we headed to a local bar to kill some time before the party started at 10. I hadn't had a white russian in ages, so I downed a few of those. Since we were the only ones in the bar, we convinced the bartender to change the large screen TV from the local hockey game to the Patriots playoff game (how did we do that in Canada!) and watched them slowly lose. Luckily, I was getting tipsy enough not to care.

At 10 we walked over to "The Nest": a loft over an egg-packing factory which Em had rented for the party. It sounds sketchy and it was - at first. We walked up to a nondescript door in the middle of an alley. The panel on the door slid back to reveal Emily's eyes like an old speakeasy. The atmosphere changed considerably once the door swung open, however. We climbed a flight of stairs to reveal a spacious loft, which would have made a kickass apartment had it been one. It had nice wooden floors, white columns, and a high ceiling. One wall had a large window which looked into the small room off the back - Emily had covered it in white paper and had set up her computer to project a slide show of all her photos onto the window all evening. Her DJ friends had set up an awesome system and were spinning tunes, and there was a full spread at the bar, complete with B-Day cake and a piñata.

So we danced, drank, ate cake, and whacked at the piñata until almost 4 in the morning before stumbling back to the hotel and falling into an exhausted sleep. This morning we woke to find it was gorgeously sunny out, albeight freezing. The temps had plunged during the evening and the wind was whipping. We had to leave by noonish to get me and Ari home in time for work, and I regretted not being able to play tourist as I gazed out at the view from our 17th floor window. We headed to our new favorite café for a delightful breakfast before beginning the long drive home. I drove 4 hours of the trip, and got into a slight pickle as the salt from the road blinded the windshield as I changed lanes, and Bethany's window washing liquid dispenser had froze shut. We managed to limp off the highway to a gas station and unfreeze it manually using a pen.

We got home about 5 minutes before I had to be at work, but I had a blast and met some awesome peeps. I really want to go back and see more of the city.

Silly Songs (We Secretly Love)

After putting "Particle Man" on repeat for the fifth time getting ready for dance this evening, I started wondering just what it is about silly songs that I find so fascinating. I thought about it a bit, and realized that there's a lot to love - catchy tunes, crazy lyrics to pretend to understand, fond memories, and, for me at least, the pride I take in loving things that are fun and quirky. So in tribute, I thought I'd list my five favorite silly songs. My only requirement was that they had to be REAL SONGS by REAL BANDS. No commercials, or joke songs from movies, or cartoon themes allowed. No, these songs were all made by actual bands to sell actual albums. That's what makes them so awesome. Here we go:

5. STANDING OUTSIDE A BROKEN TELEPHONE BOOTH WITH MONEY IN MY HAND by Primitive Radio Gods

"My, my, the thoughts that drift away
Does summer come for everyone?
Can humans do what prophets say?
And if I die before I learn to speak
Can money pay for all the days
I lived awake but half asleep?"

Just the title of this one is confusing, not to mention the fact that there's no way to say it and not sound awkward. I always used to pity the radio DJs when they stumbled all over this one. But although I have no clue what the heck this is about, I have a lot of love for the song that informed us, "Ma Theresa's joined the mob and happy with her full-time job." When I was in middle school, I idolized this so much I choreographed a really avant guarde dance to match it involving red robes and ripping out somebody's glowing heart. I was 12 and thought I was wicked arty and deep, but I was probably just nuts.

4. HELL by The Squirrel Nut Zippers

"In the afterlife
You will be headed for the serious strife
Now you make the sin all day
But tomorrow there'll be hell to pay. . ."

I've always wondered why a jazz band felt the need to get all Evangelical. And just who the hell ARE the Squirrel Nut Zippers anyway? And what the hell is a nut zipper?! Damned if I know, but I never get sick of this song, nor does the urge to do a raging tap dance to it diminish. And it taught me to spell the word "Damnation." I'll stop all the bad Hell puns now.

3. LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS by The Beatles

"Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly,
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes. . ."

Okay, we all know how many drugs the Beatles did in the latter half of their careers, but "Lucy" is just plain fucked up, even for the greatest band ever. "Rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies?" Uh, sure thing boys. I heard that the song actually came from a drawing one of the Beatles' kids had done of a girl floating in a nightscape, and when asked what they had drawn, the child had responded, "Lucy in the sky with diamonds." Somehow this makes the song even creepier, but I love it anyway.

2. PARTICLE MAN by They Might Be Giants

"Is he a dot or is he a speck?
When he's underwater does he get wet?
Or does the water get him instead?
Nobody knows, Particle Man."

This has got to be the most addictive non-sensical song every created by an actual band who isn't a one-hit wonder. I fell in love with this song at age 8 when that classic 80s cartoon Tiny Toon Adventures made a silly music video out of it. My brother and I randomly recalled the song over Christmas break and promptly downloaded it. I've been singing it non-stop ever since. It's just so catchy. Watching the video, the song makes more sense, but when you realize the song came first its even quirkier. Check out the Tiny Toon video HERE.

And the number one spot goes to. . .

1. CHEESEBURGER IN PARADISE by Jimmy Buffet

"Cheeseburger in paradise,
Heaven on Earth with an onion slice
Worth every damn bit of sacrifice
To get a cheeseburger in paradise. . ."

Only the Beach Margarita King, Jimmy Buffet, could sing a song about cheeseburgers and get away with it. But silly as it may seem, I've never met anyone who didn't LOVE this song. If you say you don't, you're obviously just lying to yourself in a lame attempt to be cool. We all know that when you're cruising down the freeway with your windows securely rolled up, you are screaming at the top of your lungs, "I like mine with lettuce and tomato, Heinz 57 and French fried potatoes, a big kosher pickle and a cold draft beer. . ." Or maybe that's just me. Parrothead Pride, baby.

The Decline of Hollywood

I read an interesting article in The Dartmouth the other day about the 2005 box office slump, and it really got me thinking about how unenthused I've been about the film and television industry lately. Neither venue has really come up with anything even remotely creative in years. The article makes a great point about the lack of originality in the industry today, and upon reading that I realized I can't remember the last time I saw a movie which really blew my mind.

And why would any of them?

Almost all the dramatic films released by major studios in the last couple of years have either been lifted from best-selling books (Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, The DaVinci Code, Life of Pi, Memoirs of a Geisha, Narnia), remakes of a film that, in some cases, was fine to begin with (The Grinch, Freaky Friday, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, King Kong) or a spin-off of an already successful series (Star Wars, Superman, any Disney sequel). Hell, even theatrical adaptations (Chicago, The Producers, RENT) have been making a comeback. And of course I've enjoyed these films. I adored Return of the King with everyone else, and Chicago was a brilliant transformation of a stage show to screen.

But what made me love these films was the glitz: the sweeping cinematography, the costumes, the interpretive choices, the effects, etc. None of these films made me love them for the stories or the characters, because I had ALREADY fallen in love with the stories and characters YEARS before I bought my movie ticket. The industry may have taken something I already liked and treated it well (or not so well, in some cases) but they hardly deserve credit for creating anything new.

So where are the films that people love independently of prior knowledge? The ones that change your opinion, make you think? Made you dream?

TV is no different; with hours upon hours of reality bullshit (I love Kelly Clarkson as much as the next person, and yes, when bored I will stop flipping for the fake hooks of Project Runway, Extreme Home Makeover, and So You Think You Can Dance, but will I run home to watch it? No.) and weak-ass medical and crime dramas, there's nothing to be excited about. Even The Office, with its brilliant acting, is a knock-off of a British show of the same name.

Since The X-Files ended in 2002 (and as any fan of the show knows, it really ended several years before), there has been absolutely nothing worth obsessing over. Granted, I don't know if I necessarily WANT to have another show I have run home to see, call friends to tape, flip out if somebody talks or the phone rings during -- it was seven years of hard work not to miss a X-Files episode, as I'm a very busy person. But the fact that I was willing to make the effort anyway speaks to how amazing the stories and the characters on that show were. I can't imagine doing that for anything on now. It's all way too uninspired. Even the latest Star Treks couldn't hack it because producers attempted to make them adventurous and Hollywoodized, and forgot that Trekkies LIKED their shows intellectually preachy and character-driven. And when THAT franchise can't keep a following, I'm not sure what hope is left for all the others.

So has the muse died out there in Hollywood or what? Or have we just reached a point where our numbed cerebral cortexes have just heard so much that there is nothing new left to be said on screen? Nothing left to inspire? Is it a bad thing that we just don't care anymore?

Since books seem to be the only good things to make movies of lately, maybe we should all just read instead?